Just Bullshit
The ink is dry, the ledger’s set in stone,
Paid in full, down to the very bone.
Through March of twenty-seven, clear and bright,
I settled every debt and closed the light.
Yet here he stands, with hand held out once more,
The same tired question tapping at my door.
As if the months of silence never passed,
As if the gold I gave him didn’t last.
Does he mistake my patience for a blur?
Or think my memory’s caught in winter’s fur?
He asks again, as if the slate is clean,
Ignoring all the receipts I have seen.
To treat me like a fool, to play this game,
To ask for payment, calling me by name,
When time is banked and silver’s in his hand—
It’s bullshit, built upon a sinking sand.
I see the play, I see the hollow lie,
The audacity that wanders in his eye.
But memory’s sharp, and record-keeping’s true:
I paid my dues—I owe no debt to you.
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Author:
Friendship (
Offline) - Published: June 25th, 2026 10:28
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: ms.divine, Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments2
Great read 🫶🏿😉
Friendship, what struck me most is how steadily the poem builds its case...from the settled ledger and paid debt to the repeated denial of reality, each stanza raises the emotional stakes without losing control. By the time the final line arrives, it feels earned, resolute, and deeply satisfying. Beautifully written, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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