hypocrite

till our only mission in life bespeaks to fight against what we speak.

late-night conversations

under the flickering lamplight, you and i laugh and mingle.

don’t cry

don’t cry, son,even when their wordsleave bruising markspale skin breakingbeneath sharp bladesred blooming behind evil weapons – don’t cry.

spat

there’s no remedy for hating. the word keeps spinning. the people keep spitting. nothing is actually changing.

toxic friends

They ate at me until I was nothing.

superficial

superficial woundsdigging its way into my souli’m falling apart words are just words until they start to hurt.

failing words

without words, i do not exist.

thoughts: now and after

i won’t understand my words,written today,ten years from now the differencebetween barely grown and maturedis the thought-process. and once my thoughtssort themselves out,i will look back on these wordsand either laugh or cry. or i won’t even remember them. i don’t know which one is worse.

what can i ever be?

i have never been as skillfulspeaking and talking and letting words whistle past my lips with the efficiency of an arrow hitting the bull’s eye,than with letting my fingers do the talking, ink painting the outside skin of my pinky, as i drag it across words staining pure white paper. my eyes can dart across

colored words

It’s the swirling of colors around each wordthat brings me back to life,away from the dredges of a dark room,lonely heart, and sad soul.  My father’s words carried slashes of red,the red of the beer bottles that flew past meas he hurtled them to the wall – glass breaking –and when there were no bottles,there