a disease called POETRY

None of us are holy.

We're just hypocrites,

making the same mistakes,

in different seasons,

and in different ways.

I think by the time our hands

are clean, amnesia sneaks up, 

and we pretend we've lived

our lives so perfectly.

So we cast our stones,

and do more damage.

All the while, forgetting

we too, have many times

   mismanaged