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(im)mature

He meant well—
 
that callow boy who played his toy
and tinkered and tampered without knowledge,
with juvenile thoughts about her or him or us and them.
 
His mind was brittle from the bane of existence,
from the pallid expression of insipidity on his face, exhausted,
he spent nights puling after that artificial release and in daylight, suddenly,
 
cantankerously,
 
pummeled people with his stare—that blank,
lackluster look,
soulless—
 
but
 
I meant well.
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Poetry.com 4.5 out of 5 based on 6 votes.
Jessimatt Martham More than 1 year ago
Love it!
John Bridge More than 1 year ago
when we are young. Great poem!
Audra Dwyer More than 1 year ago
Love
Prafulla More than 1 year ago
Nice
Abram Ring More than 1 year ago
wait... is this about me???? ;D good job
drkgbalakrishnan kandangath More than 1 year ago
nice
Matthew Bridgham More than 1 year ago
Thank you!
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