Below is the poem entitled We Do That which was written by poet
Beckett. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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We lie most to those we love,
mostly little things.
Last night, my best friend
called about her boyfriend being stand-off-ish.
The usual, relationship merry-go-round
nonsense. I told her whatever I could:
distraction is good, get a drink, go out,
go walk, play hard to get.
The thing is, once he'd made a pass at me
while she was ordering us all a round
at her favorite bar.
(Questionable morals to say the least)
I guess I lied to her.
I never said a thing.
Because when I was young,
the white-picket fence surrounding
the garden next door held dying orchids.
I wanted to go water them,
to sustain them, to prolong something
that was beautiful.
But there was a no-trespassing sign,
and Momma told me to stay away,
to never break the law.
She said interference was useless,
that flowers would die just fine
without my help.
I forgot about them in a minute.
I went out to play in the sandbox.
I was young.
Now here I am, older.
Well aware of the speed of change,
how fast things come,
how quickly they go. I'm starting to think
of this ebb and flow as re-arrangement.
Whatever it looks like,
whatever it is,
I can only manipulate the feelings,
not the nature. Not the flow.
Reality never changes,
never grows older.
Is there a battle between
change and stagnation,
right and wrong,
light and dark? I don't think so.
I think they're only mirrors,
that without one, the other
could never be seen.
Like telling your chubby girlfriend
she never looks fat.
Or your mother, you're doing this,
when you're really doing that.
Or your father, you took care
of whatever the hell it was,
when you didn't.
We all do that.
Even honesty is sometimes reciprocated
with dire consequences,