The Cure

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I hover over your head
Just like a leery drone,
When all this time you
Sit,
Think,
And hone,
Your knives.

You line them up in a row,
I know you have a perfect throw.
And when you hit your aim
There’s no crimson rain, for
Wounds of words don’t bleed the same.

But I’ve decided
Not to sit still,
Won’t let the tiger have his kill.
I’ll pluck the arrow midair
And throw it back to you…

Not to make you bruise,
Or, start a chapter of hatred anew, 
Just to create a stir
In your comatose conscience.

And I know you’ll start to rue,
All your knives and jibes,
The day you put yourself
In his shoe.

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I've written this from a teacher's POV. Do you like it? Tell me what you think. And don't forget to vote and share!!

  

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