The Blame Illusion

Whoever thinks their sorrow comes
From other hands and schemes
Must think a pencil writes itself
In crooked, misspelled dreams.

They’d blame the clock for wasted days,
The rain for every tear,
The mirror for the truths it shows,
The road that brought them here.

They’d curse the map for getting lost,
The fire for every burn,
The book they never chose to read,
The stove for what they learn.

But pencils wait for guiding hands,
And maps for eyes that see —
And happiness, like any craft,
Begins with you — not "we".

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