The me without filters needs a lot of work.

The me I am cares about people and yet

simultaneously can’t stand them.

If I had not a foresighted bone in my body,

blood would surely be on the ground by now.

At the same time, the me I am has been taught

that they are people, the same as I. And this I know.

So why does my patience run remarkably low

nearly every time a mouth is opened to speak?

Why cannot I put my cynic self aside and

love them? Instead I live with my abrasive

thoughts and cruel words tucked away inside.

For it is better to spare the feelings of

someone you don’t know than to

insult on an impassioned whim.

The worst is when they are wrong.

So glaringly, painfully wrong it is hard

not to lash out, to wait for a better time.

They are just people, same as you.

People, same as I.