Someday Sunday

The people around me, watching,
Not all(entirely) curious.
Some cause they were told to.
Some cause they're just around.
Some judgementally...
Some cause they're called to it.

But we're always hardest on family
Mine like to settle scores...
To zero out the hate with hate.
But whom ever really adults except a parent.
Not my brothers, not my sisters...
When they can so easily borrow my delusion,
To believe they're fixing broken by breaking more.

Typically how gang-lands wars start,
Or football games.
Who's carrying the retribution.
Who's got the bomb, blow them up.
Until the money runs out.. tick-tock..

I hardly know all the faults of my family
But they're all there
Just as well.
Nobody has ever expected someone to be perfect,
Except hypocrits

All is well then with my brothers and sisters...
Cause aren't they so loving!?
Why do I have to be perfect?
And why must they change their clothes after church?