Symptom (A Poem)

There’s this cloying taste in your mouth, something terribly sweet like pure sugar or molasses.

The tensions are high, like a string on a bow or the tightrope before someone walks across it. Everyone is waiting for someone to say something.

For the string to snap, lashing us all with it’s sharp hands, and leaving deep cuts. Blood runs from our wounds. We try to staunch the flow but it’s not enough.

We ignore the wounds. Licking then clean. Letting them become scars. We never address the injustice. Instead, we duck our heads and hide, hide away.

We wait for some else to speak up. To say we will not stand for this! But we are all too afraid to take that step. So we wait for someone else to move.

And we wait. And we wait.

No one wants to be the first to speak up. It’s like the bystander symptom when someone gets hit by a car or some other violent action. No one wants to be the first.

So we wait. We all wait.

But that doesn’t help the situation. Your silence is a symptom as well.

You are afraid. We all are. But you must speak up. Even though you are afraid, you must use the voice you were given.

Things will only get worse. The fear will strangle us until we can fight it. But the first step is standing up and saying “No! I will not be silent. I will not keep quiet. I will not let my fear control me.”

All it takes is one small brave moment. The rest will fall into place.

But we can’t do this alone. One person can start a revolution but only a group can carry it to success.


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