The worst thing I do is blame others for my faults.
I can’t seem to muster up the courage
to admit that I don’t have to be perfect.
So I bow my head down in shame,
hollow from the inside but a thousand words on the surface.
I may not say them all,
but they plague me in a way that becomes a part of my shape.
This misconduct gets so jumbled up that now when I look in the mirror,
I see abstract shapes but can’t figure out
what they meant in the first place.
One day I’ll be free enough to let go and admit that I can make mistakes,
but until then, I’ll be standing in this pool of my own guilt and thoughts,
trying to smile through the hollowness.