Thoughts fly by like startled birds in flight and I with my hands out feel only a brisk tickle of a feathered muse.  Perhaps it’s easier for some with quicker grasps than mine.  For I am sloth slow and cannot crisply snap the fly’s back in mid air.  It is left for the young to beat the firing gun.  I hang behind like a horse with a shattered shoe.


These words are mine.  I own them and carry them medal proud yet they are heavy with a yoke of responsibility.  You can own a fancy car, perhaps a new house or you could own all the gold in faraway lands, but to own your words is a price higher than all the frivolous belongings of humankind.  You see words really are the arrows and we must give forethought to where we aim.


I own myself.  You own yourself.  No one owns anyone.  We had a war for that, remember?  We did away with boys, tattooed numbers, and stupid bitches.  It all stopped after the war, didn’t it?  We don’t use the word so despicable we can only call it N and names so bad we must never say them in the open air, but we do.  We despise the closed mind but when we’re alone, where are we?  Some still think the color of their skin is all that matters.  Little do they use all the crayons in their box, little do they know about the crayon standing straight beside them, and so they know little with minds so narrow a needle cannot find its way to a haystack.


It is a world of bigotry, a world of awesomeness, yet it’s a world of dirt, green grass, and sweaty hope.  We live here.  We do not own it.  You see all that stops when each war begins.  We are but embryos waiting for Mother Earth to squat.

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