For some odd and curious reason
there’s this peculiar thing
people like. And Its treason
against their own kind.
The whole human race.

Whether behind someone’s back
or right to their face,
if your words are to hurt
or your actions to mar,
then you are a traitor
to who you are--

Your very own race.
Your sisters and brothers.
Your fathers and sons
and daughters and mothers.

Don’t you see what you’ve done?
To those who have cried?
To those who have cut?
To those who have tried
to take their own life
because of your words?
Don’t you see what you’ve done?
Snipping wings off of birds?

It’s the weak’s way out.
How the small feel power.
You’ll cut someone down
then scamper and cower.
But for that short moment
you’re the tallest on Earth.
You can briefly feel better
and hope you’re now worth
Something. Anything.
Anything at all.
Til you look all around you
and realize

you’re small.

You don’t like feeling small.
You don’t like it at all.
Imprisoned and helpless--
you’re everyone’s thrall.
So you snip more wings
take another person down
Again.
And Again.
To feel mighty and tall.

As you sit up there
on your plastic throne,
you look over your kingdom
and see you’re alone.
You’re the only one in it,
except for one thing--
the land that you’ve conquered--
a vast desert of wings.

You must be proud.
Long live the king!