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They Taught Me
My father taught me anger.
Blinding, hungry anger.
He taught me the ways of a whirlwind,
How to hate without retribution.
My mother taught me jealousy.
Greedy, starving jealousy.
She taught me the ways of a vulture,
How to take without guilt.
And my brother taught me fear.
Cold, exhausting fear.
He taught me the ways of a landslide,
How to flee without thought.
But the world taught me hope.
Golden, blooming hope.
It taught me the ways of a mountain,
How to grow upon nothing.
© Salem Ferrel, All Rights Reserved
Blinding, hungry anger.
He taught me the ways of a whirlwind,
How to hate without retribution.
My mother taught me jealousy.
Greedy, starving jealousy.
She taught me the ways of a vulture,
How to take without guilt.
And my brother taught me fear.
Cold, exhausting fear.
He taught me the ways of a landslide,
How to flee without thought.
But the world taught me hope.
Golden, blooming hope.
It taught me the ways of a mountain,
How to grow upon nothing.
© Salem Ferrel, All Rights Reserved
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