Folding My Hand

Am I too broken for glue?

Colors changing hue,

‘Till my heart is black and blue,

Don’t tell me how it’s hard on you,


I never claimed to be nice or sweet,

I’m not your posable piece of meat,

Or sugar coated tasty treat,

Nor is your concurring a worthy feat,


I offered the broken pieces of me,

In the hope that your blindness could see,

That only our thoughts are truly free,

And I will not compromise my knees,


To bend before your twisted whim,

Nor will I seek to let let you in,

To the inner termoil of a poet’s din,

Where my last defense still stands within,


So cast your eyes on the waning moon,

Which these winter clouds will cover soon,

And ask of her a simple boon,

That within her arms she’ll make some room,


‘Cuz mine have no desire to hold,

The rationalizations you have sold,

Or the demeaning smile that gently scolds,

So on this hand I quietly fold.