Poem #7

It was all available

Not bare

But accessible

And not via a door mat

I believed that I was giving

And that it would never run out

But now I know when I am giving

and

when it is being taken

See the highest form of manipulation is not loud

Nor is it wrapped in large font

No

It is vast

And much like old money, it is influential and often looks down from the best vantage

It has unassailable time management owed to a tight network that is weaved by nature in its war with nurture

When played back in hindsight, the memories sound like a symphony

So even though I sit in the smoke and in the haze

I sway involuntarily

As if to a master piece

And in that moment I can either laugh

Or

I can let the pain out with a cry