Another poem, courtesy of The Good Men Project. This one is more about cognizance and culpability, and how to initiate progress, we are obliged to start with ourselves.
Me Three
I know how bad it is
because I know how bad I was.
And I wasn’t even trying to injure or offend.
But, like so many before me, I was a human
hard-on—all aggressive hands and unsubtle tongue,
insecurities abounding and desires that were needs
which, for men, approximate emergencies.
We know nothing else except what we crave,
so we invade tiny towns and leave burnt buildings,
broken glass, and blood in our barbaric wake.
Subsequently, we send flowers—or tell secrets
that, translated, sound something like concession.
