Rejected feelings, stick figures in a
full bodied world, find paltry places
in which to hide themselves, sitting
with their knees splayed out, their
elbows pointed arrows in the
directions I haven’t gone.  Angry
buggers, and who can blame them,
dodging the out-flung expletives I
hardly ever throw?  If I feel sorry 
and feed them, will they thrive, and 
then, what
will my penance
be?