A Third Person Account (individual poem - Michael)

"Yeah, sure," he says. 

"Get out," he says. 

"Shut up," he says. 

"I don't care."

He sees the look on his own family’s face

And feels nothing?

This sensitive

Friendly

Compassionate guy?

Now don’t get me wrong, I love the guy. 

I look up to him,

emulate him,

And that makes it so much worse. 

He'll come home, smiling; he had a great day. 

He savors a nectarine as he recounts a funny story. 

But before I know it,

before I can digest what's happening,

I've eaten away at that ugly

short fuse. 

"Don't interrupt me!" he says. 

"Why do you do that?" he says. 

"Stop being stupid!" he says. 

"Just go away."

I set off that dynamite, and there's no use trying to fight. 

I can't know what offends or when it ends, or why he tends these awful trends;

I just want to make amends. 

So finally I get up the courage to tell him how I feel. 

I tell him about the yelling, the swelling,

The bashing, the trashing,

How I look facedown, try not to frown

As my world comes crashing down. 

"I know," he says. 

"I know.

And I hate myself for it every day. 

"I don't know what to do. 

I feel like I have this image to maintain: 

A sensitive,

Friendly

Compassionate guy. 

When I treat you this way, my life feels like a scheme

My short fuse might say that I'm trying to 'seem;'

To seem nice, to seem genuine, caring and kind,

And this isn't the person I'm trying to find.

I'm sorry I'm always exploding at you,

And here on in, when you’re with me, I'll stay true."

So he's realized his fault,

And that's always the first step—scratching the surface of that frozen layer covering up the man he wants to be. 

Boy, is he in for some ice fishing. 

But the journey's not complete. 

It won't be till 

he comes to terms with this entirely. 

It won't be till

he has the balls to admit to himself 

and to others. 

The journey's not complete till he can write this poem

in the first person.