Fate Is A One-Syllable Word
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It's strange, where fate can bring you sometimes. It has that funny way of showing its true identity, that mysterious onlook, and sometimes, it can blind you. And then there's other times, if you look real closely, where you can see what fate has lain out for you. I never really saw what fate brought for me. It blinded me, and it made myself unclear of the true fates that were lying in front of my eyes this whole time.
A lot of people think I'm weird because of the way that I think. Actually, a lot of people really don't know what I think, and that's why they find me some sort of odd. I'm not really an open person when it comes to inner feelings, but the people who really do care about me know when something's wrong. I hate to think that people find me weird. But hate is a powerful word. I shouldn't care what other people think, should I? I'm not an open person with emotions, after all.
I have two of the greatest friends. They don't think I'm weird at all; not one single bit. I guess they just don't see what other people see. They accept me for who I am. They accept me for what I do and what I think, even though at times I don't tell them everything that's on my mind.
Sometimes I feel as if I don't treat them like a best friend should be treated. I should be able to speak out all of my feelings, tell them my inner and deepest thoughts, even if they're not the best ones in the world, but I don't. I should be able to tell them how I feel about life and how it can be cruel to me sometimes, but I don't. I should be able to share with them the funny way fate has brought my many intertwinings into perception, but I don't. Sometimes I feel as if I'm not worthy enough to be their best friend. Sometimes I feel as if I'm not worthy to be even a friend at all.
I should of shared that past thought with them. But now it's gone, like all of the other thoughts and feelings that serenade over me. But at this time and place, I finally come to the realization that fate is but a one-syllable word. A single, tiny seed that grows into a field of embedded wild flowers in the spring, and tengles up into a tiny fragment of clove in the fall. I'm sorry inside that I don't treat my best friends the way I really should, and I'm sorry that I can't open up my heart to them the way a best friend would do.
But, then again, sorry is just a one-syllable word.
END
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It's strange, where fate can bring you sometimes. It has that funny way of showing its true identity, that mysterious onlook, and sometimes, it can blind you. And then there's other times, if you look real closely, where you can see what fate has lain out for you. I never really saw what fate brought for me. It blinded me, and it made myself unclear of the true fates that were lying in front of my eyes this whole time.
A lot of people think I'm weird because of the way that I think. Actually, a lot of people really don't know what I think, and that's why they find me some sort of odd. I'm not really an open person when it comes to inner feelings, but the people who really do care about me know when something's wrong. I hate to think that people find me weird. But hate is a powerful word. I shouldn't care what other people think, should I? I'm not an open person with emotions, after all.
I have two of the greatest friends. They don't think I'm weird at all; not one single bit. I guess they just don't see what other people see. They accept me for who I am. They accept me for what I do and what I think, even though at times I don't tell them everything that's on my mind.
Sometimes I feel as if I don't treat them like a best friend should be treated. I should be able to speak out all of my feelings, tell them my inner and deepest thoughts, even if they're not the best ones in the world, but I don't. I should be able to tell them how I feel about life and how it can be cruel to me sometimes, but I don't. I should be able to share with them the funny way fate has brought my many intertwinings into perception, but I don't. Sometimes I feel as if I'm not worthy enough to be their best friend. Sometimes I feel as if I'm not worthy to be even a friend at all.
I should of shared that past thought with them. But now it's gone, like all of the other thoughts and feelings that serenade over me. But at this time and place, I finally come to the realization that fate is but a one-syllable word. A single, tiny seed that grows into a field of embedded wild flowers in the spring, and tengles up into a tiny fragment of clove in the fall. I'm sorry inside that I don't treat my best friends the way I really should, and I'm sorry that I can't open up my heart to them the way a best friend would do.
But, then again, sorry is just a one-syllable word.
END