Poetry With A Mission

...a thought provoking poetical exercise.


I'm So Sorry

As much as we like to hear it, as much we don’t — yes, those words, “I’m so sorry,”
Our dislike of them being because of their need, occurring too frequently,
If you get what I mean — oh, that too oft repeated scene — that shouldn’t be so,
But yes, there they go again, another injury, when better they should know.

Yes, “sorry” is all very well, but when it keeps needing to be said, oh dear,
It can go from being appreciated to something we’d rather not hear,
And I meaning, why another injury? How genuine were they before?
All why that “sorry” sometimes doesn’t mean much, and becomes like a squeaky door.

By Lance Landall

The Last Thing On Love's Mind

There’s no joy in wrong, for out of wrong springs more, and wrong is never to our benefit, nor ever worthy,
And thus those who willingly succumb to such, mere slaves of its ill, which they oft inflict on others, sadly.
They both being many, and wrong always being wrong, regardless of any excuses given in its defence,
For wrong is the practice of fools, puppets and perpetrators, something that never comes from wisdom or sense.

Yes, anywhere but from wisdom or sense, and never from love, for injury is the last thing on love’s mind,
And why those who willingly indulge in injury aren’t on love’s side, but more enemies of humankind.
And hence why we’re all the worse for such, for it acts like a cancer within us, and within society,
Which is why we shouldn’t succumb to its beckoning, our hearts and minds free of blame, we acting correctly.

Yes, no matter how much we defend or titillate wrong, it’s still wrong — so too that “End justifies the means,”
For it attempts to bridge the gap between what's right and wrong, effectively — which right doing, it still contravenes.
Such reminds me of those so-called little white lies, for how can any lie be white, somehow acceptable?
Other than if we paint it so, and painted it is, a wrong that we’ve disguised in order to something sell.

No, there’s no joy in wrong, though there may well appear to be, but only if we’re looking through distorted lens,
Which conveniently, but still deludedly — and perilously, I might add — something or other bends.
And yes, we might get away with it, but what does such say of us, having settled for less integrity,
We joining the list of willingly offenders, and thereby, adding to the lot and loss of humanity.

By Lance Landall