Despite my shortcomings and each bitter defeat,
your constant beseeching on endless repeat,
despite my laziness and lack of volition
and your public and private morale demolition,
I am not lost as it might seem to me and to you.
Seems, madam? Nay, it is; I know what to do.
What we see may become “seems” if motive lacks
and what seems will be so if our resolve suddenly cracks.
So, perception is a mysterious prism to my very own thought,
Bending the “light” onto havoc I’ve wrought.
Yet my perception and yours, though separate but the same
Are of varying depths and are “perceptions” only in name.
As for myself, I know not what I see
Or if I do, I wished it would not be.
But for yourself, who can know your mind?
Sometimes your anger does make you so blind
to the words you speak of cruel effect
until they render in me a disparaging defect.
What pressure is upon me, all the weight in the world
By each progression from your mouth that is hurled.
Perception is but a fancy of the mind
For vision is perfect when looking behind.
We are not seers, nor mystics, nor prophets for sure
Yet we are rooted in perceptions we conjure.
If vision be poor, our perceptions are rotted
For if there is no goal, less time is allotted.
So this puzzling dilemma comes through,
What are you seeing that’s not in my view?
Can you know the very core of my being
To claim that you know and see what I’m seeing?
If not, then kindly retreat to your station
As I move to make a bold proclamation.
You don’t fully know me despite these 17 years
17 months perhaps? No, 17 days, I fear
is an accurate portrayal of your knowledge of me,
17 minutes for me to utter an apology.
17 seconds is all it took
For you to say “leave,” leaving me shook.
Life is a harder path, trod on by many,
so why does it seem my load is so heavy?
Again with the seems, I own no such needle
to divine what great issue does at my mind wheedle.
To plant a thought of helplessness could be an inception,
To grant me your perception would be brutal deception.