The weight on my heart

I put my head in my hands and want to weep.

I inhale and know it will never lift, the weight on my heart.

 

I think, again, of ending myself—the neurons out of helpful efficiency

have kindly sliced a shortcut to that heavenly thought—but I tell myself, again,

I have too much to do: I will stop war with words alone.

My wounds will never heal; they weep openly:

hourly—daily—monthly—yearly.

My stigmata that no one can see.

My tears blood red but no one cares.

It’s not for me: I am nothing.

It is for those yet to die on American blades,

military shivs of ignorance,

drones of dominance,

splintering bullets of empire.

I do not even allow myself to hate—that just fuels the killing and maiming.

Words, words, words—they are my only weapon.

I will wring from them the entirety of their power and fight for anti-war.

 

I inhale and know the weight on my heart will never lift.

I put my head in my hands and want to weep.

Copyright Tim Bagwell

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