A taste of our own medicine (Poem)

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A taste of our own medicine (Poem)

I have tasted my own medicine, and can make no mistake,
That the illness I diagnosed others with was mine in the first place,
Such examples are worst case; this aftermath is how hurt tastes,
A judgement misplaced, for I dished out what I couldn’t take.
I’ve got enough medicine made, let it not go to waste,
For I hold diseases within me, but prefer they weren’t displayed,
I preached counsel and offered aid, though both of us live with need to be saved,
Rather than accept my own problems, I stubbornly resist until my grave.

In our own business, we consider ourselves the only fair witness,
But it’s in our own sickness, that we see others as misfits,
We apply the rules different, our sight unknowingly slanted,
For others overlook our faults and we take it for granted,
Through our eyes, we hold ourselves at an advantage,
When we feel misjudged we demand the judge be reprimanded,
Go hard to give red cards while we stay on the pitch,
Make excuses for ourselves; feign an injury or a stitch.

We’re sick…

But like terminal patients in denial, we’re impatient in our trials,
Screaming at the nurse as she wears the apron down the aisle,
We can’t take how they can smile, while we suffer all the while.

Tables have turned so no longer can I feign to be the doctor,
When the diseases I accused others of in myself begins to crop up,
For the fact is, there remains a fact and that fact – we can’t live with it,
For in each of our talks we can be deemed in some way as hypocrites,
Easy to make a statement though we blatantly don’t stick to it,
Yet our diseases lie latently and we’re too proud and vain to admit to it,
Necessity to reassess the situation, but we’d rather give it a twist,
Wearing the cape on, like blind heroes seeking to fix,
But the reality of what we broke in the first place is quickly dismissed.

We need to lay off the diagnosis, as our own health suffers,
Worry about our affairs rather than being so concerned with that of others,
They say he who lives in a glasshouse shouldn’t be so quick to throw stones,
Acting as kings among peasants, self-righteousness our only coveting thrones.


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