if i could be a weapon
i’d be an m-16
stuttering with resisting,
a roaring of explosion,
leaking my insides on wet pavement
and pouring salt into my own wounds.
but i’m not that m-16 and some how i’ve managed to misplace myself
managed to lose myself in esteem,
managed to walk over myself…
managed to set my mangled limbs on fire and rock myself to sleep on gasoline beds of silence that bleed hope.
if only i could be that m-16
hitting moving targets,
smoking the slight movements pouncing in and out of eye-sight….
freeing “little refugee me” with cocked barrels
rescuing “tied down, undressed me” with gnawing triggers,
spilling secrets, in soiled grass crying to be bathed.
but i’m not an m-16
instead…
i am the swaying silence in trees
the song that can’t be shaken from the willow’s weeping branches…
the lullaby mothers won’t sing to their young,
the sad ballad lovers won’t play because it hurts
to hear the pain decoded by the piano’s keystrokes.
i wish i was an m-16 stuttering with resistance
but instead i’m a silent song, quietly screaming in pain.
© brokenS I L E N C E
3.26.10
