When our own homes become a battleground

It brings a new meaning to p.o.w.

When our stories are painted on whitewash

perceive our words.

We are not prisoners of war

But here houses

Prison of warriors

Prodigies of a will

Personification of a way.

With the power of whole

No longer can we be

Paraded like pariah,

Picked like pickled peppers,

Outed or,

Warded off.

We won't wait til a world weigh on weapons.

One once wrote wise words

History repeats itself til

We learn from it.

This poetry ours to wake

People out of wardrobes.

To persist on open windows

And to pound on walls.

So plagiarizing past and calling it present won't pass.

We won't promote ourselves wistfully

Or pray on wishfully.

We are pouring out what is

Passion out of wounds

Pain out of wane.

Til home is

Paradise over war

When our own homes become a battleground

It brings a new meaning to p.o.w.

In this garden

We are petals out of weeds.