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The Weight on My Heart (poem)

By Tim Bagwell

I put my head in my hands and want to weep.
I inhale and know it will never lift, the weight on my heart.

I think, again, of ending myself—the neurons out of helpful efficiency
have kindly sliced a shortcut to that heavenly thought—but I tell myself, again,
I have too much to do: I will stop war with words alone.
My wounding will never heal; it weeps openly: hourly—daily—monthly—yearly.
My stigmata, that no one can see. My tears, blood red but no one cares.
Not for me: I am nothing, but for those yet to die on American blades,
military shivs of ignorance, drones of dominance, splintering bullets of empire.
I do not even allow myself to hate, for that just fuels the killing and maiming.
Words, words, words—they are my only weapon.
I will wring from them the entirety of their power and fight for anti-war.

I inhale and know the weight on my heart will never lift.
I put my head in my hands and want to weep.

—Tim Bagwell