I hope that we can pick up roses hand them to each other rather than point weapons upon brothers & sisters. But a rose is a sour beauty for even thorns can bleed deeper than a dull sword.
We must speak to each other find solace in others humanity. For words can heal rifts that started long before we were born. But syllables latching on to the misgivings of insecurities can wound. Like papercuts on the mind, speaking to the shallow cradles swinging in a hateful wind of whispers flawed.
I wear glasses that I take of every now and then, I have a idealistically flawed view seeing the potential of us. But knowing we can fall harder than when can get up.