Often in life
I find that the spectacles
I use
To view the world
And life
And everything
Have become smudged.
I try to clean them myself
But they only become dirtier.
I take them to others
But to no avail—
Because we try to clean
These dirty glasses
With our own filthy hands.
But when I turn to you
You gently offer me
The cloth I've been given
And help met to clean them
Not with your hands,
Nor with mine;
But with the clean,
Pure cloth
That was made for cleansing.
YOU ARE READING
Random Poetry
PoetrySometimes poetry just bleeds out of me. Funny poetry, serious poetry, poetry that has good meter and complicated stuff, or poetry that's just a jumble of rhyming words. <Note: The first 20 or so are MOSTLY old poems, kinda light and silly and f...
