Feb 2017
Hate. All I see is hate.
Pure, unadulterated hate.
It's everywhere now.
In the ceiling, under the rickety floorboards,
Sleeping through the cracks of a once impenetrable foundation.
There are three sides to every story, but no one wants to see the third side, the truth. I'm right, no I'm right, well you're a demon. You're not smart enough, not pretty ebough, too pretty, the wrong ethnicity, to give a valid argument. You're not valid. Only I, the holiest of beings, can tell you how to think, what to say, and what to never say. I-
SHUT UP!!!
...
God, silence is golden.
Then there's the rest of us. The children, huddled in a dark corner where their angry parents hurl glass plates and scream. We want everything to be well. Perhaps "well again" isn't the right phrase. Home was never perfect, and it never will be. But if we could be a happy family, even through the dark times, if we could hear what one another is saying, no. If we could LISTEN to what one another is saying, that would be enough.
There are those who are done fighting, the old man in his wicker chair, waiting his whole life to be noticed. When he finally gets his medal, his children throw it into the garbage disposal. What is there left to say when no one will listen?
There are those of us on the front lines, the virtual vigilantes.
So passionate, so intense, so disconnected.
There are the Orwellian sheep. Saying what they've been told by whomever chooses to educate them. Their minds so innocent, angry, closing every day. They see not the masses of wolves spinning lies with the help of their wool.
The house is crumbling. Those who scream too loud are breaking the glass windows. The soft spoken are struggling to clean the splintery, split floorboards. Of course, they are all too busy to notice the house is leaning far off to one side. It starts to teeter on the side of a cliff. Creak. Creak. Creak.
Pure, unadulterated hate.
It's everywhere now.
In the ceiling, under the rickety floorboards,
Sleeping through the cracks of a once impenetrable foundation.
There are three sides to every story, but no one wants to see the third side, the truth. I'm right, no I'm right, well you're a demon. You're not smart enough, not pretty ebough, too pretty, the wrong ethnicity, to give a valid argument. You're not valid. Only I, the holiest of beings, can tell you how to think, what to say, and what to never say. I-
SHUT UP!!!
...
God, silence is golden.
Then there's the rest of us. The children, huddled in a dark corner where their angry parents hurl glass plates and scream. We want everything to be well. Perhaps "well again" isn't the right phrase. Home was never perfect, and it never will be. But if we could be a happy family, even through the dark times, if we could hear what one another is saying, no. If we could LISTEN to what one another is saying, that would be enough.
There are those who are done fighting, the old man in his wicker chair, waiting his whole life to be noticed. When he finally gets his medal, his children throw it into the garbage disposal. What is there left to say when no one will listen?
There are those of us on the front lines, the virtual vigilantes.
So passionate, so intense, so disconnected.
There are the Orwellian sheep. Saying what they've been told by whomever chooses to educate them. Their minds so innocent, angry, closing every day. They see not the masses of wolves spinning lies with the help of their wool.
The house is crumbling. Those who scream too loud are breaking the glass windows. The soft spoken are struggling to clean the splintery, split floorboards. Of course, they are all too busy to notice the house is leaning far off to one side. It starts to teeter on the side of a cliff. Creak. Creak. Creak.
