Tuesday, 2 February 2016

No Spine

you ain't got a spine son,
what holds you up so steady - 
without a 
backbone of pride,
don't even know your own echo sort of ignorant, 
the glass houses sort of victim, 
so it is me who riles you, 
who has you shaking in your boots, 
which you stamp out on me, rub me loose from your sole - 
go ahead, make my week 
give me reason to raise my voice
and screech all your blindness away from your eyes,
because I know where mine is,
and what holds me high, 
and when my compass points north or south, I trust that it is true, 
whereas you are so doubtful, 
that if you counted to ten on your hands, you'd have to triple check just in case,

Don't try me. 
I've been taught how to spot a weak one.  

I heard the opening two lines to this poem yelled across a street while walking to work about a month ago. It stayed with me until I got really, really angry at someone and started writing this. 

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