Many things in life
Cannot be controlled
But human perception
Is most impossible
No two people exist
Who fully agree
On every opinion
The other one sees
Why is this so?
Why are we so unique?
Perhaps were made to listen
But we’re also meant to speak
Each voice contributes
It’s own little view
To form all together
A sight full and true
Words said with hatred
Turn all of us blind
To ways to be helpful
And ways to be kind
Use your voice wisely
It’s not just a sound
It holds strong effects
On all who surround
About the Creator
Laxmi Woodham
Word wrangler, sentence constructor, and eloquence inspector, working tirelessly to entertain imaginations around the world! (Code for randomly scribbling notes and ideas as I quarantine my way through long pandemic days.)
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson2 days ago in Fiction
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