I am insufferable.
I am sure that’s what you think.
You know the valid truth of what you say
And how would I know different anyway?
The immovable object
That the irresistible force has failed to budge
To the truth in your superior knowledge.
I am a thorn.
I pricked your finger, made it bleed.
The sweet-smelling rosebush that looked so prim
Now tainted with the blood of your punctured skin
I will be slain.
The evidence you need, obtained
And held up for the modern world to see
How hideously wrong I’m proved to be.
But I care not!
You may be right or wrong.
The irrelevance of that is plainly visible.
Your reaction to my plain words is risible.
I weep inside.
I see your wrenching torment.
And understand much more than you can realise,
Your pain is deeper than you even yet surmise.