blaming symphony

they say it’s the way of the world —
who are we to change?
Everyone’s playing the same game,
pointing fingers, shifting shadows,
so why should we be any different?

The voices rise in a chorus,
a symphony of self-pity,
harmonizing their hurt with the noise outside.
“We’re not the problem,” they cry,
“it’s the way things are, the way they’ve always been.”

They stitch their wounds
with threadbare excuses,
dressing their pain in the clothes of others.
“It’s not us,” they insist,
“everyone’s guilty,
everyone’s blind.”

But beneath the patchwork lies
the truth they refuse to see —
that the needle’s in their hand,
that the fabric frays
because they pull the thread too tight,
because they’d rather bleed
than face the jagged edges of their own design.

They laugh at the notion of change,
mock the mirror you hold up
as if it’s just another broken thing
in a world full of cracks.
“Why should we fix what’s already shattered?”
they say,
as if their reflection isn’t part of the debris.

So they keep weaving their stories,
spinning tales of innocence
while the scapegoat bears the weight.
They tie their knots and walk away,
believing the lie they’ve lived too long —
that the pain isn’t theirs to mend,
that the world’s already lost,
and they’re just another thread
in the tattered cloth.