A Mess of Resentment

I tend to misconstrue when I am hurt –
at least that was the pattern in my youth.
Confusing it with anger, I’d assert
a righteous argument, although the truth
I hid within, behind my strident blurt,
was needy kid. It doesn’t take a sleuth
or shrink to diagnose my ancient pain:
“Your feelings? Can it!” was my mom’s refrain.

(Ottava Rima)

This entry was posted in Family, Personality, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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