It Poem by Miranda Oney

Torture. The language every person can speak.
Subtle or Flamboyant. To each His own.
Either able to make grown men squeak,
able to tear flesh, organ, and bone.
Universally It withstands time
and counteracts that which We pride.
Disguised, It hides within many a rhyme,
flooding the readers with It's sickly tide.
Love, It's greatest facade,
is at the heart of most entertainment.
I find that not so odd,
for it is with violence that Our other time is spent.
We love to speak it for information,
for pleasure, for revenge sought,
for the so-called 'good' of Our great nation.
At what price is Our soul bought?
Will We not become that which We despise?
For isn't It evil in nature?
Love can be It's face, even that can be lies,
but it seems that even We cannot avoid It's lure.