What were those words,
unkind,
and trite?
The ones that picked and pricked
to bring your every single flaw to light.
The ones that hurt
but somehow
dug a deep deep hole
and put that nonsense into you. . .
It almost doesn’t matter
what they were,
but whence they came,
and what places
that they took you to. . .
If they came from any, ANY body else,
you might have rolled them off your back
or let them bounce
toward the ones who uttered them,
and your brain would not so well
have been etched with
and recorded them,
and the gateway of your sturdier self
would not have let them through.
And then,
when you try to do
some little thing that’s good and well,
and be present for some other folks
you thought you’d be some use to,
but you fall short
and disappoint,
above all, some darkened corner of yourself,
that heard those unkind words
and spits them back at you.
The brain that’s meant to keep you safe
and help you survive
in learning well from grave mistakes,
here came an ugly head to raise
and make you feel so blue,
has so much power,
that perhaps, until this hour,
the words that were applied to you
were errant then
and even now,
past years, months, days,
yea, by the score,
ring all the more less true.
So stand and refuse,
though they beg
that you before them cower,
And feed yourself
a happier and more grateful song
and set forth along a path
upon which foot
gets more support,
though wobble a bit you may, at first. . .
For,
although it makes life
seem more bright,
you’re not yet sure it fits that way,
for your stride upon this turf
feels different,
and incomparably new.
The Danforth Anchor 