There are alarming moments
When I hate myself for what I do:
The pettiness,
An unforgivable streak of mean,
The desire to hurt instead of heal,
A moment of blind obliviousness
To a cry for help.
If it will rise at a mere provocation,
The slight ruffling of feathers,
Then the most damning truth
Is that it was there all along.
Not so noble and pure of heart after all
Are we?
No, I guess not.
Palimpsest 
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