Because it moves on

and lament for something lost is whining.

I don’t want to be that beggar-pleader;

I’ll stick to being open to the comeround when it happens

Pathetic, yes, I’ve never not been thought of as such.

I have trouble moving on.

And I even feel bad for the people trying to move me on

With their pointed hurts, ignoring of what I know is inside them, the suppression of good feelings in favour of current happinesses.

A strong man could take it better than I, the hints not biting so hard, maybe even angry-making, world-ending.

But I understand, and that is my weakness; always I get the point of view of the other

Sometimes too late, but I accept it

And in time forgive it.

Oh to be strong in conviction.



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