Don’t Cry

Would it be the alcohol speaking to myself to declare

or the real true me seeking, to whichever one would be my true scare?

How I learned what to be

or how not to be

from a sinner’s hold on a saintly heart.

All of me made of my mom and dad’s DNA parts.

Tears well in my eyes, feelings tunneling deep in Carolina red clay

or stay on the surface in Philly’s streets of asphalt.

Why do I crave not letting love get the better of me, and how much of it is my fault?

But the blaming makes me feel the gripping of wanting to be vulnerable

giving into the agony or freedom of love.

Sobering truth will be bliss

because I’ll experience all that I have missed.

By Pamelap

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2 thoughts on “Don’t Cry

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