By Andrew R. Duckworth
It must be nice to feel so entitled,
To feel so immune to criticism.
Yet, no one is immune.
Everyone is in need of a good critic,
So long as that critic is not the self.
The self will tell you whatever you want,
The proper critic critiques well,
Telling you want you don’t want,
But perhaps what you need.
Yet, sanctimony is at an all-time high.
Give a good critique and the weak cries,
Rather than reflecting.
Reflection, society is void of it.
Who examines self?
Who takes the time?
In a world of instantaneous gratification,
Who bothers with self regulation?
The critic is gone, locked in a prison,
As the sanctimonious collective fuels division.
It’s all about “accountability” you say?
The irony is palpable.
Easy to say, I suppose,
When one feels immune to such a thing.