fist

When is it?
Just all the time.
Only every minute,
to feel so wrong.
Wanting desperately to feel right,
but to feel right, we do wrong.
Never winning any argument,
cycling through the same moments.
I know what you mean now,
it's the hours.
They press tenuously upon us,
waiting for that moment,
when we find ourselves groping in the darkness
for that familiar comfort--
prickly as ever.
Waiting for someone to slap our hands,
with their supermarket checkout solutions.
All the time.
Hiding, isolated, afraid.
Ashamed.
And you think it's so selfish,
like we won't share our toys.
Take them,
save them,
but don't berate them--
when it's already hard, all the time.