Why don’t we put our Christmas trees up in February and decorate them with heart ornaments from toe to head?
Why don’t we ride sleighs to the moon and bring back hunks of cheese?
Why can’t every day be like a 16th birthday or a quinceañera?
Why does healing almost always have to involve pills or drugs and booze just for thrills?
Does Vicodin really get rid of the pain the way a compassionate person or the healing hands of a shaman do?
Why do some hands pull triggers when they could pull open a door for an elderly woman instead?
How can one dare to call another ugly, when in reality, they themselves are ugly to the core for uttering such judgement?
Why can’t all men and women serenade each other instead of serrate each other’s hearts and over-sedate souls into submission?
What is love if the amount of sex and ego-bloatings define it?
Tell me are lovers of 5 years who bicker and boast constantly more in love than two spirits that ignite at first sight?
Isn’t the sun just a larger manifestation (but not the largest) of the universe inside us all?
Why can’t our hands, that are capable of so much, stop bullets
Stop the bullet that killed the 5 year old girl making a colorful Christmas card for mommy and deceased daddy
Stop the bullet
Who are hands?
What possesses them?
How are some capable of surreal masterpieces
while others can strangle and reach euphoric state?
Maybe we’ll all hold each other’s someday and transmute all that pain-plague into golden-age.
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Eva X. The Poetess – © Eva Xanthopoulos 2013.
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