Photo by Manny Moreno on Unsplash
They call them triggers
Because they fire like bullets
And most will aim and shoot
Directly at you
As if you are the reason
For their wound,
Their unhealed scar
Their compassion
Or awareness, that’s
Below par.
The lower they crawl,
The sharper their aim
Don’t hang around to engage
One they are rattled
Run away
Without guilt,
Move on with your day
And pray for them
That they find their way
About the Creator
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Comments (1)
Yup, that's the only thing we can do. Loved your poem!