Weary bloodshot eyes are now dry with remorse.
The night was filled with floods of salted agony.
Why can I not kick this habit of complaint
that now the little ears can hear?
It seems I’m a sinner still and haven’t donned some grace
and bestowed it on my neighbors.
Why do I think myself more deserving of good news?
Do I really?
Could it rather be the surging hormones I can’t seem to restrain
and with it my tongue flicks harming unsuspecting bystanders?
I label them a friend but when commenting on their choices my speech is venom,
not the encouragement I’m commanded to uplift.
Now I walk with looming dread, fearing I’ll never get this right,
hoping life will change and maybe become a hermit.
It is easier to surround myself with imagined friends than endure the ebb and flow of community.
I know community is a beautiful web of fragile expression,
shared experiences- tragedies and joys.
However, I often wonder if I am serving my purpose, if I’m simply a burden to society rather than a contributor.
I ask myself why he hasn’t called me home.
Until he does, it seems I will wander in the fog, unclear to why I’m here
and what I have to offer.


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