Brave

When I began, I was an honest man. I admit to having faults,
but wonder If other men are like me who try not to die and
shirk from responsibility and common sense at times.

As a man I brag about all the times I showed how brave I’ve been.
The speeds I reached while driving, heights I dived from over rocks
waiting to tear my balls off. The fight’s I’ve been in.

The times I’ve been stabbed, shot at and missed too many times
to list. Threatened by a gang of guys with hate in their eyes.
Races I’ve run and long bike rides taken.

I brag about my kids and grand-kids. The wives and girlfriends I’ve had
and say I’ve never been in love or had the need to feel greed. Those are
thoughts I hold dear and they remain above the subconscious mind where
the cowardly and stupid things I’ve done go to hide.

The times I was afraid to fight, or didn’t protect
a child or girl from the evil in this world.
Thoughts of my stupidity lay alongside my cowardly
ones trying to hide from the truth in me.

From nowhere memories arise that cause me to shiver when I see what
I’d done to maybe more than one, and the steps I could have taken. I see I’m
not so smart or brave as I like to believe. Why couldn’t I have done what was
right those nights and every other time instead of letting weakness rule?

The thoughts that I wasn’t cool haunt me and lead my mind to the dark side
where I think because of showing how stupid or scared I was at times makes
it so I want to confess to the world that I’m not who they think I am and I
don’t deserve to live because of the lousy decisions I’ve made.

My hand closes around an imaginary gun. I put the barrel into my mouth
and want to go South, but bite down on cold steel and start to feel before I pull
the trigger. When I do, I’m happy I only imagined, because I know I shouldn’t, even
though it’s a purple night, but sometimes I wonder if I should shoot to make it right?

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