We got so tough about it all, so rough around our edges,
a decade goes by,
and we think we know everything,
We subsist on pain,
on a gearshift of trauma,
on the vibrating nodes on the back of our craniums,
asking us to form an opinion,
any opinion,
without reason or apology
apparently apologies are merely ill advised confessions of ignorance
if only I had known that then,
on the tenth,
we could have glued this all back together,
kind of like Lincoln Logs
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