All these words come pouring out
Like booze from the bottle,
Screams from the bereaved,
And some things aren’t throttled.
You take me with a grain of salt,
But I know you haven’t been
Walking the same bitter earth
And dark hour I’ve lived in.
So when we are done sparring
With syllables and sentiments,
And supporting self-aggrandizement
With our petty resentments
Maybe I’ll hear you, really listen,
And maybe you could lower your defenses
To see what I’m weaving isn’t
Dangerous or wild or senseless.
We could commune
In honesty of thought and speech,
And love could end the war;
Love could bind the breach.