My Excuse

My excuse,
I didn't get enough lap time, 
at the age of two,
I was evicted from my mother's lap,
and had to learn quickly, 
how to walk on my own two,
It wasn't an eviction, really,
It was more of an interruption,
that should have been 
accompanied by the announcement,
"We interrupt this regularly scheduled lap time
to report a reality check life
don't always go the way we dream,
and can quickly become a nightmare,
or a running daymare."
"You don't always get what you want,"
like the song from the Rolling Stones, 
and life is more like a rolling stone 
than a box of chocolates,
and as the title of the album suggest,
maybe we should just let it bleed,
but does a rolling stone bleed?
Where is its beating heart?
Does it care? Does it harbor
any resentment that its lap time was interrupted?
I used to cry easy because tears,
were the only thing that came that way.
Easy.
My feelings were tangible, and could be
cut with a knife, and easy was
a foreign object that got caught in my throat,
But when you are forced to 
abdicate your throne at an early age,
You learn how to quickly put on 
a thick armor, and toughen your skin,
How to choke back tears,
and throw deuces to the wind,
How to face your adversary,
eye to eye,
with a mad dog glare,
and how not to cry.
How to walk through the valley
of the shadow, with chin held high,
How to survive,
How to dodge their taunts,
How to duck their blows,
How to ignore their wants,
For what are those?
something you can't always get,
until you get inside and close the door,
and fall with relief and a fit of tears 
to the floor, and hug your knees,
and give that little lap-time less girl,
what she really needs!


Victori ©