Poem by Adam Crawford
It's "You've just too much of this" or "You're too
little of that," with the obvious thing
being that the ideal person isn't
too much of anything. If that's the case,
well, then that makes me angry: not because
I don't wish to work on myself (it's true
though -- I don't), but that this means the work
is endless and therefore meaningless. If
you make growing a prime concern, you won't
ever be finished. Something will, in time,
Always need to be adjusted for the
satisfaction of someone else; and, oh,
of course: "Nobody asks for perfection,"
I know, but they do ask for stagnation --
for a personality held-fast and
unchanging -- which can't be helped on either
side. So, it's a temporary fix at
best, considerate character clean-ups;
and what's the alternative: acceptance? . . .
Ignoring is what that is really called.
Accepting, if it does not merely mean
tolerance, means seeing fresh beauty in
something that one had not before; and some
such habits and past events are simply
beyond our capacities to put up
with in others. "Then it is our duty
to be better understanders of each
other." Wrong: we must be better judges;
and it is no duty -- just the only
way to preserve love's illusory strength.
Adam Crawford is a writer of poems and short stories. His work has been published by Ink Babies LitMag, Silent Spark Press and The Pomegranate London. He lives in Simi Valley, California.
