The flow of truth
twisted beyond repair
crashed upon the vulnerable shores of our existence,
so many voices
with stories that wish to point the blame
ignoring the pain,
that weaved it's way
through opened doors,
fleeting moments of vulnerability
taken into the hands of those, that wish to mold our lives
to twist our minds, with their elaborate plans
to push us towards our own self destruction
our old way of being,
reborn into this manipulation,
the desecration of our potential.
The war on our young,
images that scream for their attention,
that prey upon their insecurities, their longing to be accepted.
Where are the screams?
when is it enough?
And what of our concern,
fallen to the sidelines
on ears, that only wish to hear, words that comfort them.
I weep,
the heaviness of all those silenced voices,
of actions, that paint the way for suffering,
adhering, to pathways that rip them from the womb, of self love.
whispers
that feed the flames
igniting dissidence
of realization, of all the rage that served those. that rose before,
onto a time of self awareness.
I
wait.
Words and image my own.
