The Pandering

For the pandering poet:

Her scars are not for your likes.

Yet her pain has become your meal ticket

You hurl verbal band aids at her fresh wounds

With your one line wit, pretending to know her

But do you really want to see her heal

Oh but then what would you do?

When the trap door to your pigeon hole closes

Would you become vulnerable in front of her

Would you strip to your bare soul

And tell her exactly how you know the other man

You so frequently speak of so well....

I would imagine not

the narcissistic irresponsibility of such powerful words with no true aim....

Is exactly how she was hurt in the first place

But, I shall leave simple one line pandering to you

As for me, all I offer her is truth.

cbleakney