Inherited from her,
the quick-to-explode gene.
Eyes down, fists clenched,
we stood silently passive
until the flame was spent.
Her sudden verbal lashings,
see-what-you-made-me-dos,
fury flung horiffic words.
Perhaps, in those moments,
I learned to control anger.
But she can fester within me.
Like termites gnawing
eroding the core of sanity.
Pause. Breathe.
Seek a good. A beautiful.
Take up pen and feel the script.
The flow. The ebbing.
I am not her.
Not that way.
I will it to be so.
This morning, as I prepare to go to the streets, I will remember this. I will raise my voice not in anger but in love for my fellow humans. Thank you!
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What a wonderful comment. Thank you!
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