Sometimes they’re words
and sometimes they’re daggers.
The deeper thet cut,
the less that it matters
That you wasted a day, you wasted a week,
You ruined your peace by refusing to sleep.
They crept in.
They crept into the smallest of cracks on the edges of tongues,
and once they’d begun,
They won’t be undone.
Their clinging and feeding,
until you are bleeding,
bled dry,
ripped cuts,
carved wounds,
bruise on bruise,
yellow, black, and blue.
No choice to choose.
This is you and all that they can do.
Extingish the fire with words,
and see that after it all it still burns.
Fuel the fire with words,
and see that the more that you shout,
the brighter it flickers,
the higher it reaches,
the sorches, they deepen,
and make paths whilst you’re sleeping,
the words. They’ll destroy you.
The words.
They’ll come for you. The words.
They’ll sing to you.
The words.
They’ll torment you,
the words.
Relentless.
The words.
CAN YOU HERE THEM?
The words.
Can you feel them?
The words.
The words.
The curse.
The curse said with words which will challenge your reality,
yet in reality,
they are words.
The words can not hurt you,
they are words.
The words can not touch you.
They are words.
Yet you let them.
You let them control your hands,
Make them like fists.
Bruised and battered by words.
They could have missed but you gave them body,
gave them being.
Let words become physical as you dug through their meaning.
The words.
They’ll kill you those words.
If you let them those words.
If you protect them those words.
If you listen those words.
Those words will do more harm than those who used more than just words.
Banish the words.
Or die to them.
– Jen Pickering
Jennifer Pickering 