Everyday, I play a game.
It is a battle to some, a combat of wits.
It’s a trial of my awareness; my word against his.
As Mother listens, I defend my case.
My brothers’ story is very solid, with the minority of errors.
But I only makes mine seem all the better, when I show my insight in such matters.
It seems that it comes to this all to often; a battle of he said-she said.
And It is not me I am defending, so do not be deceived.
My brothers quarrel, and brawl all day. But is not them that suffer, it is me.
For I am the witness of such brutal conflicts.
I am called to witness who did what; who was wrong?
If my judgment is inaccurate, then I hear an outcry of the opposing sibling.
When it’s all over, I take a bow, leave a smile.
Heading to my room, I think about the accomplishments of the day.
I am the witness, they are the defendants, Mom is the jury, and God as the judge.
Although it is always fair, I wish they would quit these pointless debates.