No Choice

Accepting there are narcissists in this world,
accepting my father was one of them,
accepting my siblings could never get over it —
accepting there are clusters of people suffering
from their own shortcomings,
who wrongly blame the world.

Accepting the fear that turns into violence,
out of ignorance and lack of wisdom.
Accepting the bitter so I can taste the sweet —
the roses and the cats and my lover’s eyes,
sweet fragrance all night long,
sweet trees and grass dancing in the wind.

This is the world,
this is ourselves.
Can’t separate myself from the rest,
can’t reject what is here to stay.
Blame is just a meaningless, self-inflicted wound
that I’d rather heal with the power of my own words.