The time poetry ran dry.

It is often that I do not care,

but that night presented a grim picture,

when assumptions were apprehended,

and distastes were spelled out.

While I bore the brunt of the animosity,

and I was slightly shriveled,

at how clear misunderstandings can be.

I smiled, and sobbed.

Clear, gurgled sobs.

Not unhappy.

Just misunderstood.

Presented as the picture of abhorrence,

I chose to stay mum.

And as I question the unfairness of it all,

the words that you so unleashed,

come back to me, like a gust of wind would,

and the sobs choose to appear,

and I'm left weak and insecure.