I'm hurt.
Deeply, on the inside.
It's a pain you cannot touch, or see, or hear.
The wound I bear is not my own.
It is owned by a hundred thousand souls.
Souls who cry out for happiness and peace.
Souls who cry out for mercy from themselves.
Too many have died.
Too many killed by a knife,
Wielded by a hand we can only call their own.
Too many cried to sleep.
Too many hurt by those they love.
It is their pain I feel.
Their suffering on the inside.
This is the hurt that rocks me to the core.
It is this pain that causes me to reflect.
Is it really them?
Do they make the hurt they feel?
I don't think so.
It is us as a world that make this wound.
We carve it out in the hearts of our people.
It is silent, and it is deadly.
It is those that are silent, that are deadly.
Fearful, watchful, waiting.
What we don't know, hurts them.
Is the power to change this ours?
Or are we to leave them to their own devices?
Do we as a nation, as as many nations,
Feel the pain of the common good?
Can we as a soul heal those that are broken inside?
Our words make gashes in the soul of the earth.
Man is a power, and language is a weapon.
If man should learn nothing, let him live in peace save these words.
After all that which has been spoken,
These are the words last of all.
Let them live.
