The ones who messed up always blame
the ones who didn’t mess up.
She ruined everything. I’ll give you her name.
Or not. This is a poem—
so either way, it’s all the same.
The poem is super-wise,
assaulting your ears to amaze your eyes.
Wisdom errs on the side of unity.
Let groups who doubt flee.
The ones who mess up
don’t blame the ones who didn’t mess up
some of the time, but all of the time. It’s a law.
It’s what messing up is all about.
Whole philosophies are founded on doubt
and their theories will get you in the end—
even during a casual conversation with a friend.
“I’m sorry I messed up. I should have checked
with my mother and the sun,
with the diseases, with the 15 kilometer run,
with the children and the pets.”
Virtue never messes up. And has no regrets.