I believe we blame others for our pain too often. This is a post looking at myself in the mirror.
Poets like to talk about what's wrong with everyone else. Well, why not? We love to hear a good fuck you poem, right? It's like we own a fine pick comb and magnifying glass to pull out their skeletons, leaving them naked and exposed on display for their wrongs. Staked to a cross.
But what about when I'm the fuck up? When I'm to blame? You see God gifted me the talent of words, but it's messed up when those same words become ammunition. They say a boxer's fist are lethal weapons but is that any different than a wordsmith's slick mouth?
I know that the power from words can change the world, but it can also destroy the most beautiful things. I damaged the friendship that meant the most to me. I cut wounds so deep that I know no surgeon that can repair her. I kept slicing, slicing and slicing until I could do nothing but walk away.
A sentence can take mere seconds to say but leave scars for a lifetime. I know this. I'd rather get punched in the mouth then stabbed in the heart with a sharp tongue. So why did my words drool off my loaded lips & spill into her lap.
Why did I let her down?
I know. I did it to get a reaction and when she didn't play my game, I got more upset and made it worse.
I hurt her because I was hurt. The irony is i ended up more hurt.
The worst part is I don't know how to fix this about me. I lost count how many people compliment me on how even keel I seem, but every time i hear this I wish they could see what me is inside. I am a tornado that I manage to control most of the time except for a select few people that have seen this other side.
Like this instance. I became torrential downpour. She became flooded. I was left wide eyed staring at the aftermath & asked what the hell did I just do?
This has been a lifelong battle. It's not like I haven't tried to be better. Two years ago, I quit weed in the hopes it would improve my emotions. The beginning of this year I quit caffeine for the same reason. I read books on emotional intelligence.
I don't know what else to do. I don't know how to correct what doesn't happen enough to practice and I don't want to practice on those I love anymore.
Maybe what is needed is to write this fuck me poem. Use a fine pick comb and magnifying glass to pull out my skeletons. Leave me naked and exposed! On display for my wrongs. Staked to a cross.
The verdict: to not get close to anyone.
I don't ever want to do harm again.
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