On occasion,
I have been driven to acts of extreme nonviolence
by those who have expected the opposite of me

There is nothing quite like
the sound
of a father's dismay
at his son
who refuses to strike him
despite his deepest wishes,

Or the relief in a girl's voice
after promising,
without her asking,
to never abuse her.

I think something is wrong with me.
For I am only violent in my music.
Is grunge what life is suppose to feel like?

Is that what my best friend hears
every day he shuffles past
loose bottles and snapped belts
to crawl into bed,
hoping to not distrub the presence
which gave him life?
A presence still snoring out the whimpers of his little brother?

Did my dad hear bass tabs
when he told his abused siblings that
"there ain't no way I'mma treat my children like he did us?"
I wonder,
does he still hear them?

Are howls and chords what the boys in bathroom stalls
playgrounds
hallways
classrooms
my bedroom
my porch
my basement
hear when they make me taste the ground?

Can the violence of soundwaves really be mistaken
for the passage of time?
Does life truly deserve a Grammy for
Best Harrowing Performance?

Is life really just one big mosh pit?

...

On occasion
I have been driven to acts of extreme forgiveness
by those who deserved only a little

All they had to do was ask
and that is what scared them