The phrases were on handmade signs,
strewn on pamphlets of coarse design,
scripted through men who knew less than most,
inspired by passions the voice invoked.
Some spread this tripe to stir the crowd,
base literature with truth disavowed,
as inflammatory as the petrol bomb,
igniting rage that reason can't resolve.
These rabble-rousers of the first rank,
scoundrels who had their goodness tanked,
these are the leaders who shouted loud
to their adoring followers that life had cowed.
These are
the distant memories,
a reminder of
present treachery,
silenced as my voice
now exclaims
what the past monsters
said with no shame.
The hate-stained logic has checked out,
incorporated in my deepest thoughts;
convergent thinking brought to its end
when black turned to white and thick to thin.
Leaders are molded in the heat of war;
I'm no longer the weakling of past discord.
Blood sharpens steel among the freaks,
spurred on by chants that crush the meek.
The phrases flow through my snarling lips,
strewn to capture those I can eclipse,
scripted on pages of darkest traits;
my voice has transformed to become hate.
© 2026. Lynn Green. All Rights Reserved. 20260513.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 11:13 PM UTC
The phrases were on handmade signs,
strewn on pamphlets of coarse design,
scripted through men who knew less than most,
inspired by passions the voice invoked.
Some spread this tripe to stir the crowd,
base literature with truth disavowed,
as inflammatory as the petrol bomb,
igniting rage that reason can't resolve.
These rabble-rousers of the first rank,
scoundrels who had their goodness tanked,
these are the leaders who shouted loud
to their adoring followers that life had cowed.
These are
the distant memories,
a reminder of
present treachery,
silenced as my voice
now exclaims
what the past monsters
said with no shame.
The hate-stained logic has checked out,
incorporated in my deepest thoughts;
convergent thinking brought to its end
when black turned to white and thick to thin.
Leaders are molded in the heat of war;
I'm no longer the weakling of past discord.
Blood sharpens steel among the freaks,
spurred on by chants that crush the meek.
The phrases flow through my snarling lips,
strewn to capture those I can eclipse,
scripted on pages of darkest traits;
my voice has transformed to become hate.
© 2026. Lynn Green. All Rights Reserved. 20260513.
The poem "Self-Talk" traces how hateful public rhetoric, once condemned by the speaker, becomes internalized until the speaker’s own voice begins reproducing the very violence it opposed.
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