I'm sorry that I can't
Please you.
That I can't bend my
Spirit, my will, my existence
Into a pretzel for you to
Consume and find a bit
Of satisfaction for a fraction
Of a millennia
I'm sorry that I
Can't please you,
That I can't put my life
On hold to collect directives
On how to make your life
Easier, better, happier,
Even though you have yet to
Set directives for yourself.
I'm sorry that
I can't please you,
That I've failed in the mission
Once again. A mission
That was not mine in
The first place. A mission that
Has left me battle weary,
Embittered and tired,
Oh, so tired.
What's that?
You need what?
To do what for what is not
For my better good?
To do what that strips
Me of my agency?
I'm sorry
That I can't please you.
That's it.
No ramblings.
No explanations.
No reasons why
I'm not jumping at your
Beck and call.
I can't please you.
I've accepted it.
I've come to terms with it.
I've settled into it like enjoying
A fine glass of wine,
A hot cup of coffee,
The view of an endless horizon
That curves just that little bit at
The corners.
I can't please you...
And I'm not sorry about that.
Photo by Thaynara Picoloto de Campos on Unsplash
