Compassion is the compass that leads so many people in the wrong direction.
Compassion is what leaves the heart infected.
Compassion is what a woman loses when the man that she loves says he loves another.
Compassion is what a mother feels for her brother who has run out of brothers.
Compassion is what a bullet has as it pierces the chest of the unarmed black boy in the streets.
Compassion is what a knife has as it strikes through the heart of the cheating lover.
Compassion is what the woman has when her second-time love doesn't love enough.
Compassion is what the soul is born with and then it slowly diminishes as the soul grows older. When the soul dies, that compassion is crossed over.
Compassion is what is felt when a hug grows a little too tight. Or when a conversation goes on through midnight. Or when a kiss is no longer acted upon with slight fright.
Compassion is the feeling that comes with love.
Compassion can heal and compassion can hurt.
Compassion is what the scars that mark my body feel when a man tells me that they are not an oddity and he pulls up his sleeve to reveal his.
Compassion is what I once felt and compassion is what I am bound to feel again.
Because my heart will beat again, as long as my soul isn't dead.
Compassion can be described as a feeling felt by only the living, yet so many people die and still manage to have this feeling.
Compassion is not to be exaggerated. It is a feeling that, no matter how much you try to scrub it, it'll never be faded.
And while the bullet kills the innocent and the blade kills the guilty-
Compassion is not to blame. There is no blame game when compassion is thrown into the picture frame.
Compassion is what I feel at this very moment and it's what I want to feel in the years to come.
Compassion can be described as when your heart skips a beat, or when you sigh in defeat because the work you're doing just can't be complete.
Compassion can either make us feel completed. Or make us feel as if we should be deleted.
Compassion is love and love comes from the soul.
None of those things are wanted anymore.
YOU ARE READING
Words.
PoetryThis is a book I write in to relieve my mind of the horror it creates for itself. Poems or not, they're words. Definitions or examples, they're words. My words. Read it or not, they're my words.
