Say it to my face.
It is the essence of my ire-
this commonality of man,
a saddened fact-- that he fails upon the altruistic path.
While talking along paralleled lines for the sake of saving face,
his actions bounce to the perpendicular…
Behind your back he will spit bile,
expecting you to fail to digest the truth.
Leaving you only to guess.
Often your emotions are left-
as junk in kitchen drawers.
Yet when you meet again—
hands are shook, smiles exchanged,-
and again the knife is pulled from it’s sheath…
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