Trigger Me, Why
Oh how, I cry, disdain toward the word,
that gaslights sanity and truth defy.
When hapless, hopeless person, undeterred,
begs ask the question, of the victim, why?
Does thou holdest thee in purest contempt,
whilst quick, to grant, my aggressor pardon?
Lest I, in whom, no violence breathes, attempt,
to find, just cause, yet does, in myself, shun.
Yet still, it is, not I, that strikes the blow,
not I, in whom, is ruled, by selfish gain.
Not mine, the tongue, from which, hate seeds doth grow,
nor my, the hands, whose vice-like grip, chokes pain.
So when, I'm asked, the accusat'ry 'why?'
I'm shook, as you, dispel my truth, as lie.
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2023
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