I hate my pride,
And the way I’m never satisfied.
I love my drive to work and make,
Even if it’s just for motion’s sake.
I hate my reluctance to make a stand,
Even when the embers of my anger are fanned.
I respect my lack of complaints,
Though it doesn’t put me with the saints.
There are many sides to me,
Some I love, others a don’t want to see.
I have good traits and bad,
Some are happy, some are sad.
I try to maintain self respect,
Though I know I’ll never be perfect.
I am weary of the fury which I feel from day to day.
My eyes grow bleary and I merely can not stand to feel this way.
I say verily that I barely contain the rage which bides within.
I act ferally when once I merrily would have been a perfect gentleman.
Some days I cry and wonder why, it is that I no longer act a friend,
But then I sigh, for tis a lie, that my will I can not bend.
I must take control of the role my patience plays within me.
Or t’will be a tole and my soul will have to pay the fee.
So I’ll be kind and work to find a new way to vent anxiety.
I am resigned, myself to bind, for gentility to gain notoriety.