Words, those precious things

That we all hold so dear

What, may I honestly ask

Would we do without them?

This way of self expression

That defines who we are

Something so taken

For granted, misunderstood

But what about the words

And how they feel

About constantly being used

By everyone at will

There are many artists

Who work well with words

And so many others

That poison the words they use

Look at people we see often

That greatest of speakers

And the unspeakable evils

By such a terrible persons

Is it the fault of the words?

Or is it our fault?

For all the good we bring

And all the bad we do

These words, often used

For the art of self expression

But what of these words?

And their own desires?

Regardless of our ambitions

And our supposed directions

We have enslaved these words

To work upon our wills

With no freedom to decide

Their own fate, but oh well