they tell us it’s in
our heads, that we’re
broken, but the truth
is buried deep inside
our veins. hatred is
not a sickness of the
mind, it’s a sickness
of the heart, of the
world that feeds us
lies with silver spoons.
we swallow pain like
pills, but anger isn’t
a diagnosis, it’s the
product of poisoned
ground where we’re
forced to plant roots
in. don’t you see? it’s
not us who need the
cure, it’s the soil, the
air, the sky, soaked
in love buried deep.
burn the prescription,
the medicine, and let
ourselves finally heal.