Sad Old Sorry Tales

It hurts to have those you cared about
and have given to turn their backs on you.
It's a sad old sorry tale of the bitter life we live.
Each time we complain we're told to grow up,
it's a sad and worn out tale to complain.

Such naval gazing it may seem to look upon your state
and curse your wretched fate
for having been given this lousy hand from life.
Grow up they say, and I say too
when words like these I see written on pages like these.

These words seem to me as virtual as the medium which they occupy,
but when at once that feeling visits you with force, you need to say it too.
You need to sound worn out and juvenile,
telling the same old tale as though you've found some profound truth.

Yes, the world is filled with many a Brutus, and we've all had our share of knives,
where is the profound truth in this?
Truth it may be, but new or profound? I think it not.

It seems to me the world tricks us sometimes
or people themselves deceive us into thinking that such is not the case of the world.
But those who stand by us ever so constantly are forgotten.
We care about those who stab us when they falter in their usual supporting love.

Yet all these are words
and words I care not about if I were to read
out of the hands of other players in this life,
yet it's our right to curse our fate
and look upon the world with dismay.
It's our right to ramble and victimize ourselves
as though none of those who read have been wronged as much as we.
And men like me will mock these tired old tales,
not for being above them, but for having experienced them all too well.
I fail to sympathize even with myself in normal times
when thoughts like these don't visit me.
How then can I expect to sympathize with others
whose naval gazing seem more shallow than my own?

It's a sad old sorry tale of being wronged, forgotten, neglected or rejected.
Yet when I think of those who have offended me with these wrongs,
my cocky arrogance and snobbery are humbled and set aside
and my heart lets out a sigh, nostalgic in essence emotional as a child's.

I think on them with sorrow and joy,
for having given me so much, enough to hurt me this much.
I think upon them with love and fond memories
and regret that is not my own.
A regret with no guilt from me,
a sad and happy thought that is hard to explain.

Yes, even one like me can stop my self mockery for a time
and realize that behind these sad old sorry tales of bitterness,
there is some truth to be felt not known.