Friday, September 2, 2016


I'm run over.
Tire tracks across my history.
Hard, angry, or weak souls,
damaged by life or lack of life,
in turn attempted to harm me.

The result should be
a bitter, hopeless woman.
But I choose my response.
I display residue of my choosing.
What you see is the me I choose to be.

I'm not a dart board.
I'm not the dart.
I'm the air the dart flies through.
I choose which way to bend,
after the dart is long gone.

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