The Humbling

I had the ego of a demi-god once
  (not sure if I'm cured of that affliction)
an asshole with the proverbial chip on my shoulder
maybe I still am
I wrote of dark pain, stories morbid
as if I was the only one who understood

then came a humbling 
in guise of a poet from Sudan 
in a classroom of eager wordsmiths 
he sat quiet;
carrying the pride of hell and shadows
in eyes that cut like a warrior's blade
in Arabic and English--
then came his words 
then came his words

"I like how you write," he said
"but what the fuck do you know of pain
the desperation of a ten year old who hasn't eaten in days
fear of a father whose child is marked for death in the womb
terror of a child with a gun in his hand told to kill
insomnia of a mother fearing a knock on her door
scars of abuse never to heal on your sister
what the fuck do you know"

as my ego was doing a free fall
he continued,
"but there are so many atrocities I've not been through
I cannot understand those
there is a pain only you'll understand
it's time you stopped-
stop being fucking apologetic
and write of this world 
as your damaged eyes see it
yours is to question 
for who can see flaws better than the flawed?" 

today the ego isn't inflated
but I'm left with the question;
what the fuck do we know
  (wait, some take offence to the    all inclusive WE)
I ask again
what the fuck do I know
of pain and suffering except my own
what the fuck do I know. 

©Lost