They look at us
with forks and knives held tight
for a softness, for a weakness
to slash and devour.
They're hunters
looking for prey,
shooting darts of 'trust me'
& we get weak in the knees
and fall to their feet
asking to not be a plaque
in their living room.
Enough of being victims
when there's enough adrenaline
for us to channel our anger
no more held back by the darts
they can't cage us, destroy us,
break us or change us.
We're wild to our bones
we don't need any guns, any knives.
The fights in our souls
and the lights in our minds
are powerful enough
for us to survive.
YOU ARE READING
Words that escaped
PoetrySometimes I think of a word and sentences follow. Poetry is emotions that escape through these words. Give these poems a read, pretty please! I write with all my soul.
