Sonnet XI

To be the ridicule of those untamed
Is not a pleasant feeling, I admit.
My guilt is fed; my brain a burning mess
when thinking that perhaps I should be blamed.

My character is practical but brusque,
Perhaps too stiff, dogmatic, arduous.
I’ll bend the iron wills of hardy fools,
their dispositions hardened by distrust.

And yet, I still decide it’s all their fault.
If I relent, they all persist with joy;
Their treason’s deep and hard to shake away
And like the wind, becomes so hard to halt.

Thus cruelty starts with wicked deeds and words;
rewards with sin, dishonesty, and hurt.