Wounded

Unable to fly myself, I shout at you;
Anguished by my own tormented lacerations
I call you names.
Handicapped by my own fears
I sneer at your fearless wrestling
with the challenges
I am too weak to face,
demanding perfection
I cannot find in myself,
rushing you
so you'll be certain to fail.
Where is the grace
in this angry, wounded bird;
this mother,
whom I find so hard to love?


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