Cotton

People in glass houses have never shattered

I don’t want people who have never been hunted, to talk about hatred, or to hate

Without that familiar sting on their skin, like bullets shattering the glass surface of their lives

When all they’ve ever been peppered by are blanks

It seems so false and hypocritical, that I almost wonder if they even understand what pain is

And how undyingly it rings in my ears when I hear nothing but the silence

And the words that whisper yet never leave their lips, buried in their mouths, treasured by their egos

Are nothing more than a misfired projectile, from naive slender hands that know no more than to point themselves at others,

Rather than to push back against the hate that forged borders in my life, fighting for truth among the lies,

Like the sun rises a scythe on the horizon

They smile thinking they’ve grazed me so brazenly, I am not full of warm feelings

Their bullets so soft and daintily lacy that they their pillowy silk might as well be the fabric of the static noise of my white void

Cold hearted people have never been consumed by frostbite

They have never felt a chill down their spine when they near death’s corridors

They hide in warm houses made from weak pride, and couldn’t hope to hit me with one slug I could give half a s**t to hear

I wonder when I will be reaped by fellow human beings, and when my words will be harvested

Overripe in their compost, and these flowers will grow in their community gardens

Planted by the palms of fate, and love, and things neither them nor I have earned

And yet act like they’ve seen the hardship of a weed such as I

Sometimes I wonder why people who couldn’t take one step in my shoes made me stumble

Sometimes I don’t understand that when they smile at my pain

They are making up for every happy moment they have and made a mule of me

And under that weight I realize

At least I am not so burdened by their words,

That I can’t laugh at their infinitesimal effort to cause something they’ve never endured

And I understand, I don’t have to show them what suffering is to feel superior

I’m not so weak that I have to break down others

In order to build up some insignificant  self-esteem that is without foundation

And so, I grin

I laugh at the close calls of death’s sentinel not far behind my shadow

As I walk forward, and stumble, proudly carrying the baggage I must bear

I am not afraid to fall

I easily forget about people who don’t know what a person is

One who adapts to pain, and survives

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.

Reviews

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People in glass houses have never shattered but one day a storm will shatter all the glass and it's sharp pieces will rip their skin off!
For those who think bullying over a weaker is fun and it tells their superiority, I now consider them cowards who can only impose their strength on weaker, they don't have courage to fight against wrong. But those who suffer and survive are everyday heroes in their own world. I wanted to write something exactly like this but you wrote it before me! Well I am glad. And I love it how you named it "Cotton".

Keep Writing Jack!