Ink smears, as thoughts sometimes do. ~Terri Guillemets

Some days so many words rush to my head,

But I don't know how to say them
So I write them instead


Saturday, August 7, 2010

But i'm not your property

History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people.
-Martin Luther King. Jr

There were billions of people, all gathered around the square. Whispering words of wisdom to each other. At the front, a shadow loomed over the crowd. Watching, daring someone to speak. To share their whispers. People would glance nervously at the shadow. Hoping he wouldn't overhear that they too had thoughts. Every now and then the shadow would sweep his arm over the crowd, making them all cower and whimper. He could hear the sound of whispers though. He wanted to get rid of them.
Out of no where he heard a sound, louder then a whisper.
He glared at the crowd. trying to pin point that sound.
Everyone was staring. Staring at this person.
Standing amongst the billions of adults, was a kid.
The shadow roared. No one was allowed to be a kid here.
The kid stood with the grown ups. The smallest one there, yet the creater of that sound.

" NO MORE WHISPERS." He shouted. "YOU ARE WHISPERING ABOUT MY FUTURE!"

The shouting made the shadow shrink back. No one had ever raised their voice before.

No one had ever raised their voice before.

The grown ups looked at the shrinking shadow.
Why hadn't they said something before?
It could of all been over.

The kid looked at the adults and said, "Please."

They should of raised their voices.




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