My tongue is a pitchfork,
but my words wait wantonly
for your eyes to process them.
They wait patiently on the page for you to ponder them.

Like little deadly daggers dipped in poison,
or honey,
or lust to drive you to touch yourself,
or someone else.

Maybe you want to touch me.
Maybe you want to caress my leg.
Maybe you want to punch me or hurt me instead.
Perhaps my words make you
want to make me
dead
for something that I said.

Maybe not though.

Maybe you just brush by briskly,
ignoring me and my words,
but how long can you ignore the devil?
Remember children.
The devil gets his due...
he always gets his due!