With a frown she looks at me,
As if I'm a clown drowning,
In lack of anticipation of hell
People are capable of giving.
'It's bad' she cries to me,
'They often don't mean well.'
Coating the stew with icing,
But what's brewing in that spell?
It's a merciless world she insists.
But my parents rarely tell me this.
So I don't intuitively turn to malevolence,
What goodness in that have I missed?
She mocks my naivety, watching the contuse.
Ready with 'I told you so' to bombard me with 'I know's.
See I can enter a world you've denied access to,
A land where thorns on roses don't grow.
You'll debate that's not reality,
But in perception 'truth' doesn't exist.
Reality to each is subjective.
Whatever helps us subsist.
In the midst of all this- fine, I'll be your clown,
In my unjaded ways I persist.
So no more love for you, no more hurt again,
But how much goodness in that have you missed?
Comments about this poem (Clown by Jen Eva )
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