If words were houses;
Then mine are in shambles
Windows cracked
The door hanging off creaking hinges.
Filthy youths throw rocks
Shattering holes in the rotting wood
And leaving shards of glass on the old carpet.
One day
I will crumble, with no grave.
Just a pile of adjectives, verbs, and nouns.
Left to be laughed at and scorned.
By those who speak far better than I,
In a way Wilde and Plath would admire.
Whilst mine are followed by snickering and indifference, failing to move a soul.