“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”-
Line 76, "The Burial of the Dead", of The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot.
When I'm being rebuked and berated
the first thought is you, first
you, first
What nerve
When anger and hatred
is expressed unsedated
not prorated but exponentiated
I'm supposed to hold my tongue?
It's a bad defense
I feel no less guilty and
I'm aware of the consequences
of my own placed burdens
Or perhaps I don't
I don't really know the extent
And this treatment is deserved
Oh shit, I really messed up
And now, the pain compounded
I start a new journey
More or less more lonely
May God have mercy
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