Next time before answering force with its like, I'll try to remember my blow-hole to spike, to hold my forked tongue without making a sound, to contain such thoughts as my psyche might hound. For words writ or spoken that fly from the cuff, are full of false logic and even worse stuff, they're useless and harmful, they cure not one thing, they bite and they injure, they hurt and they sting. Few are the benefits of open speaking, of letting the brain-stem commence with its leaking, of making a statement or speaking one's mind – far better it were to make noise from behind. I'll heed this sound warning and keep myself still, if not woe and loneliness my heart will fill, when I stop and realize it's all been for naught, that love and compassion I'd briefly forgot. The proof's in the pudding, that soils my nose, that gums up my laptop and sticks to my clothes, this paltry aggression I henceforth shall cease, reverting to lamb what had turned into beast.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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