Words have a pulse,

They bleed and they bruise,

Like a heart’s beating impulse,

Only that you get to choose.


Like a scream gone ignored,

Or a sob in dark, behind closed doors,

There’s nothing worse than moving towards,

A life, you know, not meant to be yours.  


Words have a bite,

They stab and they poke,

These things that I write,

The fires they stoke.


Shaping abstract thoughts,

Into feasible delights.

Wrestling words out of mind,

Unto paper,

It’s a most unholy fight.


But words have a touch,

They cry and they sing,

To some, they’re not much,

But to me, they are everything. 

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