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You are here: Home / Prose / balls

balls

April 16, 2016 9 Comments

The person in the mirror, made-up, polished, primped, and preened, is a fraud. That person doesn’t even exist.

We are the mud beneath our fingernails, we are the grave from which we’ve crawled in defiance, we are what we have fought, clawing, to achieve.

We are the blood on our split knuckles, we are the battles we’ve survived, we are the principles we dare defend, we are the people for whom we would die fighting; we are the sum of the love we have given.

That person in the mirror, the imposter, the pretender, hasn’t the balls for this sort of thing.

9 Comments

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Comments

  1. thoughtsgather says

    April 16, 2016 at 10:14 am

    Another friend of mine wrote a poem about the person in the mirror, today. Hmmmm

    Reply
    • Eric says

      April 16, 2016 at 10:21 am

      Hmmm. This one is old, rescued from my IG recycling bin.. in lieu of any freshly-penned poetry.

      Reply
      • thoughtsgather says

        April 16, 2016 at 10:27 am

        David’s is on a slightly different vein…. But both resonate for different reasons

        Reply
        • Eric says

          April 16, 2016 at 10:29 am

          I suppose I should look. I do like David, and his writing. That place makes me itchy tho.

          Reply
          • thoughtsgather says

            April 16, 2016 at 10:32 am

            He sent it to me as a photo. I’ll email it to you.

            Reply
            • Eric says

              April 16, 2016 at 10:33 am

              Okay. Thank you 🙂

              Reply
  2. Maureen says

    April 16, 2016 at 12:48 pm

    This is truth.

    Reply
    • Eric says

      April 16, 2016 at 12:59 pm

      Well, yes 😉 Thank you for reading my posts today 🙂

      Reply
      • Maureen says

        April 16, 2016 at 1:00 pm

        I read your posts everyday. No choice.

        Reply

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