My fists are small, my arms are weak,
And my aim is downright pathetic.
I cannot watch doctors administering
Shots and needles and things
I struggle to open heavy doors.
I claim a full five feet of height
To my name, and my posture
Makes it less.
I love soft things and cry at sunsets,
Write poetry, love endlessly,
Pat small children on the head,
Twirl in the rain, and
Scurry up tall trees like a spider monkey.
My soft fingertips have never curled
Around the barrel of a gun.
I can't stand to see others hurt,
Do these words fly from me,
Sharp as knives, quick as razors,
Cruel and heartless. I laugh
At the pain my words bring. I smile
Around insults and accusations.
Here is my arsenal- my lips and tongue and mind,
Even my heart.
Without a gun or sword or weapon of
Copyright © Little Sperling | Year Posted 2017
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