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Inconsiderate Tears
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Soul Poetry To them,
my only purpose,
is to unclutter,
what they have cluttered,
unsoil,
what they have
soiled
and repair,
what they leave,
in disrepair.
Never,
do they stop
to consider,
how inconsiderate,
they really are,
but are quick to notice
and point out,
that my tears,
are inconsiderate
of them.
They blow me off,
like a leaf falling from
a summer's ended tree,
the color washed from me,
dry, brittle and no longer
necessary to grace
their branches,
once my purpose
has been served.
Never,
do they attempt,
to unburdon me,
from what
they burdon upon me.
But, quickly,
they are there,
when a need is present
in their own minds.
No one,
gives any of
their selfish thought,
to the agonizing
state of my being-
of how much suffering,
these diseases,
inflict upon me.
Nor, do they even try
to understand.
Yet,
I trudge on,
as mother, wife
and daughter,
every day-
uncluttering,
unsoiling,
repairing,
and crying,
my inconsiderate tears.
