Poor Me
There is a friend who made me poor,
Not because she stole my loot.
She took away my richest treasure
Because of what I did and said.
I knew this friend three years longer
Than the one I was yet to lose,
But it would hurt me more than any
Other breach my body would feel.
She wasn't spiteful or malicious,
Never vicious or hateful towards me.
I could count on her for anything
'Cept secrets that should have never been.
We had appointments that I would miss
Because my schedule became intense.
And I promised I would make the next one,
But overslept that fateful morning.
I ran to meet her with words prepared
And a photo she long had coveted
To make up for my past transgressions.
I told her please do not tell my friend.
Why did I etch that commandment
Onto a heart, I thought, of flesh?
She said, "OK", but thought it strange
And told my friend anyway.
I was jerk, such a silly boy.
She wouldn't have minded what I did,
But I didn't want her to think I thought
Rich girls didn't deserve such gifts.
I did repent and was later forgiven,
But what we built had been torn down.
By such a small foolish deed of mine.
I bought one friend to lose another.
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