Quiet
not
the
raging mouths that scream
differently
tuned
songs,
which burst
with
conviction, with outrage,
with
words you’ve
never held
between
skull and teeth.
Living
words (and people) will
not
be muzzled
without
cruelty (or war)--
unsaid
words
fight
to become.
Let
them
(we
must)
be
something,
do
something,
say
something...
or
lose
everything.
The
Scream, by Edvard Munch
– for
Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #143: What Makes You Scream?)
This
flesh is mine; it has bled, spilled pain
that
helped me turn darkness into fuel.
You
pretend to understand my ways, but you don’t feel
what
lives outside your festering skull.
No,
I no longer know (or care) why you have become
you--someone
whose absence is celebrated by most.
– for
Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #140: Things That Aren’t So Scary “anymore”)—once upon a time, when I was young and more than a wee bit naïve, I found
darkness terrifying. The same was true for how I felt about hurting the
feelings of individuals who didn’t quite deserve my worries. Life and
experience changed my views on both counts… drastically.
