It’s not really fair for the one who stays in fear of being defeated, whose choices are swept away by the other’s single choice is a single self.
It’s not really fear that keeps one too near to the One whose freedom is strangled by tendons not tender.
It’s not really tears that tear one up, while rage rallies beneath the veneer of endless courtesy and, no others hear or care to see tears turn to spikes of glass and facade.
It’s not really reasonable when one can’t appear, to not want to be here, can’t stand to sit here while others over there admire ones choice, because they don’t have to be here.
It’s not really real, dare not say how one feels for dread of dull thuds from sharp judges’ mental mallets.
It’s not really just, when fine lines so thin, keep one wrong or right where they want one.
It’s not really good when one lonely one side steps tomorrow to stop feeling,