my mother always said
my good intentions
were doomed to
misinterpretation
by the ignorant.
she was right.
each time i try to help,
wearing my rose-coloured glasses,
i am condemned, mocked, belittled.
since my earliest years,
i remember.
i remember the hurt and confusion.
"but i was only trying to help!"
it continues to this day.
i extend a hand.
it is slapped back.
my skin prickles each and every time.
and yet, in my sixth decade,
i see myself still
with that hand extended.
the fool that i am.