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A Force To Be Reckoned With

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I met a painting woman near Canada a’ traveling.
She spoke to me of her lifetimes passing.
She spoke of her search for harmony and happiness.
She spoke of her hardships with selfishness and sadness.

I listened intently to her stories of lovers
her battle with pride and forgiving her mother.
But I could never forget the last words she said..

I just want to be a force to be reckoned with.
A mirror image of the colors I dream in.
An iridescent hue of the things I believe in.

I reflected her light on my life as she left.
I kicked the words she painted around in my head.
I’d never in my life felt so pointless and heartless,
and the stinging sensation of guilt filled my conscience.
I’d been painting my moments in images of black,
avoiding my reflection in the years that had past.
I looked in the mirror for the first time again,
and realized..

I’m no force to be reckoned with.

My reflection is fading as the colors are draining.
And my dreams won’t be waiting.
For a season that's changing tomorrow.

Comments (1)

This comment was minimized by the moderator on the site

This poem hits the >less than button right on the nose. Love it!

wickedwahine_69
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