What’s wrong with me? I keep making the same
mistakes, hurling my will at loved ones and
others through psychic lethal weapons: flames
of fear, javelins of jealousy, canned
sarcasm, rocks of rage. Then apologize,
offer lilies of lies, illusive tears.
Stand stunned or slump insulted when chastised,
rebuked. I can never trust what appears
as truth from others’ mouths. They say my crimes
include never seeing consequences.
What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t they tell I’m
special, a great mind trying to make sense
of life? How, though I’m a step above them,
I struggle to understand and love them?
Roger Armbrust
April 23, 2010
