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.
Another friend of mine wrote a poem about the person in the mirror, today. Hmmmm
Hmmm. This one is old, rescued from my IG recycling bin.. in lieu of any freshly-penned poetry.
David’s is on a slightly different vein…. But both resonate for different reasons
I suppose I should look. I do like David, and his writing. That place makes me itchy tho.
He sent it to me as a photo. I’ll email it to you.
Okay. Thank you 🙂
This is truth.
Well, yes 😉 Thank you for reading my posts today 🙂
I read your posts everyday. No choice.