I can’t read what isn’t written;
Can’t make sense of scribbles in the sand.
How can you proclaim the perfection of what you preach,
When the standards you set, are out of anyone’s reach?
Who are you, to think to teach,
When you yourself are in so much need?
When you yourself are so easily deceived?

How can you claim the ill intent of others,
When the same men that hurt you, you keep as lovers?
The betrayals you deny, the crimes you repress,
Make me depressed, as they make me shudder;
How you fail to utter how they’ve fallen;
How you still answer when they’re calling.

I can’t read what isn’t there,
Can’t force myself to care,
About what you see scrawled in the sand.
Don’t try to change my mind,
Darken my perspectives,
Look down on my drives.
You strive to climb on high to a pedestal,
You have no right to perch upon.

Don’t assume the worst,
Of the people I love.
Don’t compare them,
To the assholes you won’t rise above.
Your past does not give you the right to criticize my present.

Jessie Gutierrez