This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.
Here is my fence, and here's where I sit;
There are two sides I see, and I feel like a twit.
There is no middle place that is both safe and sound;
Rather, both sides pull my legs 'til I fall to the ground.
Up here, I can see many points of strong view,
And sometimes it's easy to know what to do.
But others, it seems like I can't find an angle
That will show me the way to negate a strong wangle.
I teeter here on my thin, narrow beam,
And it's clear what I reckon whenever I'm seen.
I've not fallen short of explaining my place,
For it's always been clear by the look on my face.
When one side is daft, I will say just as much,
Or when they've a point, I will mediate such.
And sometimes I fall in their camp rather strongly,
To my detriment, sometimes, whether rightly or wrongly.
Sometimes I am weak and I hide what I feel;
I'll keep secret the feelings I have that are real.
I'll fair bite my tongue if I'm not feeling well,
But by God, if I'm healthy, I'm not scared to tell!
I'd not pick a battle with a weapon that's faulty,
For that leads to shows that are snotty and salty.
I'll say what I see, never mind the reception,
If I think there is fault at an idea's inception.
But sometimes, sat here, though there's nothing to yield,
I get caught in the crossfire, with no safety shield.
If I see from both sides, I'm a big target butt
For a knife in the back or an arrow in gut.
But truly, why pick sides? Why not have a gate?
Why must we all be right, or wrong? Why the hate?
Can't we see points of view and then pick as we will,
Without bickering, fighting and shooting to kill?
Where's discussion, and hearing, and good arbitration?
Who bothers to stand down or make reparation?
I'm just a lone person who sees lots of things,
Whether kisses or punches, or hugs or harsh stings.
It's now that I realise, there is no fence here;
I am placed on a white picket funeral bier.
I am tired of the world, and of stating each thought;
If I listen to others, why can't they? I am fraught!
"You believe this, 'cause they said this was true!"
"No, you believe that, you're a bitch, stinky poo!"
You are both wrong and right, and I care no more now,
For I'm tired of your view and the don't-care-no-how.
I shall dig my own field, far away from the world,
And I'll put up leylandii with banner unfurled:
"This is my field, and you can't enter it,
No cold-callers are welcome, bog off with your shit!"
And I'll stay on my own and I'll talk to the stars,
And I'll laugh at Uranus and just ignore Mars,
'Cause I'm tired of talking and listening well;
The world can bog off, it can all go to Hell!
And if I need people, I'll just remind me
That upon that white fence, I was truly lonely.
This peacemaker's tired and weary of life,
For it's totally full of loud troubles and strife.
And it won't matter much, I won't really be missed,
For the people in those fields are angry and pissed.
Take my caution, then, reader, and put in a gate;
Please don't end up like me, fix it 'fore it's too late.
This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.
Here is my fence, and here's where I sit;
There are two sides I see, and I feel like a twit.
There is no middle place that is both safe and sound;
Rather, both sides pull my legs 'til I fall to the ground.
Up here, I can see many points of strong view,
And sometimes it's easy to know what to do.
But others, it seems like I can't find an angle
That will show me the way to negate a strong wangle.
I teeter here on my thin, narrow beam,
And it's clear what I reckon whenever I'm seen.
I've not fallen short of explaining my place,
For it's always been clear by the look on my face.
When one side is daft, I will say just as much,
Or when they've a point, I will mediate such.
And sometimes I fall in their camp rather strongly,
To my detriment, sometimes, whether rightly or wrongly.
Sometimes I am weak and I hide what I feel;
I'll keep secret the feelings I have that are real.
I'll fair bite my tongue if I'm not feeling well,
But by God, if I'm healthy, I'm not scared to tell!
I'd not pick a battle with a weapon that's faulty,
For that leads to shows that are snotty and salty.
I'll say what I see, never mind the reception,
If I think there is fault at an idea's inception.
But sometimes, sat here, though there's nothing to yield,
I get caught in the crossfire, with no safety shield.
If I see from both sides, I'm a big target butt
For a knife in the back or an arrow in gut.
But truly, why pick sides? Why not have a gate?
Why must we all be right, or wrong? Why the hate?
Can't we see points of view and then pick as we will,
Without bickering, fighting and shooting to kill?
Where's discussion, and hearing, and good arbitration?
Who bothers to stand down or make reparation?
I'm just a lone person who sees lots of things,
Whether kisses or punches, or hugs or harsh stings.
It's now that I realise, there is no fence here;
I am placed on a white picket funeral bier.
I am tired of the world, and of stating each thought;
If I listen to others, why can't they? I am fraught!
"You believe this, 'cause they said this was true!"
"No, you believe that, you're a bitch, stinky poo!"
You are both wrong and right, and I care no more now,
For I'm tired of your view and the don't-care-no-how.
I shall dig my own field, far away from the world,
And I'll put up leylandii with banner unfurled:
"This is my field, and you can't enter it,
No cold-callers are welcome, bog off with your shit!"
And I'll stay on my own and I'll talk to the stars,
And I'll laugh at Uranus and just ignore Mars,
'Cause I'm tired of talking and listening well;
The world can bog off, it can all go to Hell!
And if I need people, I'll just remind me
That upon that white fence, I was truly lonely.
This peacemaker's tired and weary of life,
For it's totally full of loud troubles and strife.
And it won't matter much, I won't really be missed,
For the people in those fields are angry and pissed.
Take my caution, then, reader, and put in a gate;
Please don't end up like me, fix it 'fore it's too late.
This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.
