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.