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No one has the right to consciously hurt other people, yet sometimes we are just nincompoops and we run around with tunnel vision and we don’t recognize the harm we are causing others with our ill-considered behavior.
Tag: <span>Hurt</span>
Everything hurts,
Our hearts shadowed and strange,
Minds made muddied and mute.
We carry tragedy, terrifying and true.
And yet none of it is new;
We knew it as home,
As horror,
As heritage.
Even our children
Cannot be children,
Cannot be.
Yesterday, because I rushed it even though I should know better, I stapled myself. It’s fascinating how it works. The staple coming out of my pneumatic staple gun, goes into my finger -not all the way, but deep enough to make an impact and then…nothing.
Every Mother’s Day I want to crawl in a hole and stay there until the annual demonstration of love and gratitude toward the woman who MADE you is over and done with.
Hiding behind a screen brings out the worst in some. How easy it is these days, to constantly offend and attack people with mean tweets and comments. I am often shocked by the brutality and coldness people can show, with just a few words.
“Why aren’t you in school? I see you every day wandering around.”
“Oh, they don’t miss me,” she said. “I’m antisocial, they say. I don’t mix. It’s so strange. I’m very social indeed. It all depends on what you mean by social, doesn’t it?
I have seen a lot, I have read a lot. I wished for it a million times. I don’t pray, and if I would, it wouldn’t be for peace, but I would ask for humanity and civility for all. These words have a meaning to me, they are the core of my being.
I hurt a kid when I was a little girl. I had said some ugly things in anger, and it made me feel bad later that day when I was back at home. The girl had been mean first -that was my excuse- but still I didn’t feel good about it. I shouldn’t have said the things I said.
We walk together silently hidden behind our masks. Secret thoughts unspoken, our words measured, our walls built, yet in all of us are the same desires, touching us, moving us if only so we may know as others speak to our hearts, we are not alone. We are hiding who we really are; only our eyes show the truth.
I wrote to my Mother years ago, a letter that I never send, a letter that she never read. There was no need to send it, it wasn’t meant for her in the first place. I didn’t know if she was still alive or not, I didn’t know where she was and didn’t want to know.