They say that words can never hurt me,
But its the stab of a scrawling pen that stings the most
Because they aren't just sticks and stones.
They’re a sharp knife between my ribs
That my heart tries to escape,
But it can’t get out of its cage.
Words slice us open until dark ink
Gushes from our wounds and pools over the paper,
Where those who can’t read hop through the puddles of our misery.
And words may not break my bones,
But they propel every speeding bullet that crashes through my skull.
They fuel ever ticking bomb of age old scripts that condemn my home.
Words are the push from the ledge in every excess suicide
They form the noose that strangles your neck before you even touch a rope.
They label every empty pill bottle and they write the note.