"Can't you feel any sense of compassion?"

[enigma_of_truth]

How dare you tell me of honesty? How dare you tell me of Truth? How dare you make me doubt every part of myself that I see as good? How dare you make me feel worthless? And yet, you do

Comments

[anonymous]

Compassion, and you bother me again! Every jot you take offense. Do you suppose you occupy my time at all? You scream Truth but cry when it’s spoken concerning you. When it’s you it will be explicit, hiding nothing. Yet, you condemn others behind their backs; hysterical laughter for the second and third groups, a strange inadequacy toward the first. There is no truth in life, in living. I am most angered by your dismissal of questions. Do you ask any, anymore? I condemn through writing because it is written for me. You dream all my words are about you, a knife to your throat - mere fantasy. I write of love and hate and none of it is to you or for you or with a single thought of you. Still you run away. Where is your defiant face? You have become challenge-less and pitiful. You ran when you thought you disclosed too much; as if I didn’t already know. No longer do you live with purpose. You sink into your mediocrity and despise the day you met me. Each semester people come and go from your life. That is how it’s always been right? But

[anonymous]

perfunctory, adj.
*perfunctorily, adv.*
perfunctoriness, n.

1 done without care or interest or merely as a form or routine; superficial; "a perfunctory examination"

2 without concern or solicitude; indifferent; "a perfunctory teacher"