Traffic Sign: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr
Again these bad thoughts come to me like a nightmare with vengeance, holding back nothing but kindness; words flow from my mouth like a short vocabulary for thoughts who know not what they say when they say it out loud.
How is it that we never really think before we say something vulgar and rude?
Is it what this cruel world has taught us; words that flow with no meaning but the obscurity that releases them.
From racist to hatred words they can come in any shape or form like a bomb or a dozen roses of death with peddles that are bleak words that flow but mean nothing, yet hurt those around us.
So, as I sit in this chaos and hear nothing but the loud mumbles of those on the outside, I will try to keep my calm and drive on by not saying a word.
By John M. Pride Jr.