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WE

A poem by Martin S. Wathen

By Martin S. WathenPublished 2 years ago 3 min read
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We run, sprint, gallop, skip or gambol

With legs which aren’t tightly fastened

By the laces of those ruled by greed.

We move whichever direction desired

Because we are free. We should always be.

.

We are free. Or at least manufactured

For the same. We glide in any direction

We so wish to choose and follow the

Guidelines of our heart. Not the wagging

Fingers on cruel conjurers of pointless pain.

.

Even at our worst, we smile warmer per day,

Than those hateful few within entire lives.

We hug tighter, squeeze firmer and kiss

Far softer. We cry more tears, because we

Have more to give than those monsters above.

.

We give more, yet seem to carry much less.

It’s true, we bare more to lose, with loves

Invaluable currency but, if our heart’s

Weighed enough about the monetary plain

We’d be rich enough to buy their tools of hate.

.

These tools of hate, committers of violence.

Not only guns, knives, shells, grenades too.

Their tools; often loud to hush the whispering

Voices of those they detest. Yet, amongst a

Crowd. Whispers together are roaring melodies.

.

We are not disposable, nor expendable.

No chance are we pawns in the spiteful game

Of another man’s sour, narcissistic, gluttony.

Or helpless fingers in an ill-fitting glove only

Restrained by broken rules when we should be free.

.

We are far from an undersized shoe,

Nor do we live life bound in cuffs.

We spread fingers wide and smile

Far more than we dream to scowl.

Care for every hair on heads we admire.

.

We are not forged for oppression,

Nor are we bound by the direction

Of heartless brutes. We have our own

Hearts to follow. And that compass

Points far clearer than all else around.

.

We follow these directions for our young,

But also our old. We do not allow the wind

To force our backs for the very same reason

Our old did not do the very same.

We stand firm, for all those we adore.

.

We are not disposable, nor expendable.

In each we carry a decades wide history.

With century spanning vast lineage.

As we cherish the stories we carry,

In our colourful, wondrous mind.

.

We see colour richer than those fools,

Which seek to squeeze eyes tight.

We cry as we kiss, and tangle,

Soggy hands in hefty rain. The clouds

Do burden. We love all the same.

.

We are more gentle than them.

More soft with our touch because

We understand the stressful delicacy

Of life’s firm necessity. We understand

Existence can slip if pressed too hard.

.

These titans of greed laugh as they steal.

Centuries of time thieved within the

Cruelty of a single, measly shell.

They care for nobody but themselves,

Yet spit with the mouths of their masses.

.

They steal those we love. Or, often times,

They steal us from them. Yet, we do not yield.

We do not succumb to their greed, and bow

Heads in shame. We rise again, with souls

Sturdier than that which they can bury.

.

Even as we, the ghosts of love, plummet

And drown about the feet of these titans of hate.

We know, disregarding size, our hearts dwarf their own.

Our souls flicker brighter no matter how vicious

The monsters strive to extinguish our flame.

.

No matter the blazing gale’s intensity,

Or the firmness of the steel toe boot,

Which applies pressure along our throat.

The hearts of those below the storm,

Radiate richer than dreary clouds above.

.

We feel. We feel sensations,

Of which they can only dream.

We dance with joy, and gently kiss

The forehead of those we adore.

We misplace umbrellas, just to spite the rain.

.

We do not loath those which love to hate,

We merely pity those which hate to love.

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About the Creator

Martin S. Wathen

A writer practicing in both prose and script. With a deep passion for film and screenwriting, I use this platform to publish all unique ideas and topics which I feel compelled to write about! True crime, sport, cinema history or so on.

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