Crashbox

And I have asked that question too many times
As rain beats across the windshield.
With a raging voice
Conscience
Speaking truths that I shamefacedly ignore.
Slowly turning from careless anger
To weeping and wondering;
Why have I not trust?
Painfully seeking both idyllic childhood and principled Age
Finding dejectedly that we still suffer.
Yet...
Now, out of the past these memories plague me little
When selfless and sacrificing friends bare their hearts,
Wrenching open the chest of the past
Freely offering their sorrow
If this is not trust...?
And the question is answered:
"..."