The world, it seems,
Does grant you wings,
To fly about unburdened.
For me, received,
Is leaden spikes -
Immobilize my action.
And love, it seems,
At every angle,
Falls within your lap.
While I, alone,
Must grasp for straw -
Acceptance never given.
Though hate, it seems,
I'm unable to give,
Favored though you be.
And you, it seems,
Grant me yourself -
Sweetest fruit forsaken.
(Original date 7/6/2010)
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