This Was Probably a Waste of Time, Too

Enough with all the cliches and lines of thought that display only a propensity for cutting corners and a strong dislike for understanding. In your wildest imagination you are described as a woman, breathing in fully the questions therefore begged of you and the responsibilities inherent to your new position. In blinding reality you are a girl shadowed in the locker rooms and hallways and carpets thread bare by the children before and since that were, and likely still are, exactly like you stand now. You're armory of borrowed ideals proves full of little more than wasted spit and wasted time, a reality wherein the bystander to your charade is overwhelmed with the quandary of which scenario is worse: the one in which you squander your days lamenting the evils of man and his long reign over the order of society, or the horrific truth that remains the only honest product of your many footsteps drenched in hate, the fact that all you've done is waste time, an offense for which there exists no forgiving judgment. I suppose one can merely hope that you may someday speak more softly from whatever spot inside you still loves the beauty in rain filled leaf drums and that illuminating waltz between steep cliffs and eternity.