Good Bones

Today, I found beauty in this poem. In a world that currently feels as though the beauty must be hunted for.

Good Bones. Maggie Smith.

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine.

In a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways. a thousand deliciously ill advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least 50% terrible and that’s a conservative estimate. Though I keep this from my children.

For every birth, there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged sunk in a lake.

Life is short, and the world is at least half terrible. And for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you.

Though I keep this from my children.

I am trying to sell them the world.

Any decent realtor walking through a real shit hole, chirps on about good bones. This place could be beautiful right?

You could make this place beautiful.

 

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