Unspoken Poeticism

We All Bleed Red

When we bleed, we all bleed the same colour;
beneath our skin, our flesh and bones possess the same shades;
past our outer appearances, we each have a tender soul;
and when we die, we all decompose under the weight of the world
and disappear insignificantly, becoming utterly pointless and irrelevant.
Why, then, do we discriminate? What ever is the purpose of hate?
Why do our mouths spill hateful words directed at those who have
different skin and different hair, different loves and different wear?
These differences mean not much, for we all bleed red—
not blue, like the oceans and skies and blossoming bruises;
not gold, like the gods and goddesses with ichor in their veins.
We all bleed red, no matter who we love or how we look.