Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But words will never hurt me

Yeah
That's true

Except;

Broken bones
Give pain that causes strength

And words will not just hurt me
They will be what kills me

It's all about
Your *interpretation

If you're in a store,
What would you buy?
A rock with rough texture,
And sharp jagged edges,
Or a beautiful stone,
Smoothed in a grinder,
Polished to perfection to have a nice finish?

Most would choose the second.
Same for you I assume.
This holds true for us humans.
You know I am right.
Society is the customer,
And life is the grinder.
And that nice polished finish?
That's words, you do know.
Sweet, honeyed words,
And usually lies,
Are what give you that beautiful finish, you'll find.

When we are young,
We have sharp jagged edges.
None are the same.
We're all very different.
So they run you through life.
That'll smooth you right out.
You'll learn to use words,
So society will buy.

There's a little graveyard
just outside of town
The grass is overgrown
The trees are dead and brown
For as long as I remember
No one's been up there
And from the look of the dead flora
Nobody really cares

It's about a mile east of here
The fence is almost gone
It's never going to get mistaken
for good old forest lawn
There's not a stone of granite
Most are white, or made of wood
There are spots among the headstones
where others may have stood

I thought it was a potter's field
for those destitute and poor
but, upon close examination
i have discovered so much more
The names go back before the war
The civil one I mean
Back before the Pilgrims came
back to sixteen seventeen

There is no history of them at all
The names aren't from this town
But, there they are on ancient stone
Buried in our ground
It's really something different
The feeling of knowing who they were
Were they here in search of riches
Or chasing down the wealth of fur

I've checked all the stones still standing
Two hundred thirty one in all
that includes the stones rough hewn
left leaning by the wall
The town itself was started
Back in eighteen forty two
So compared to those here lying
The town is fairly new

The graveyard is neglected
There's no body here at rest
from since the town was started
laid in this hallowed nest
There's crosses and carved angels
Whole families as well
With this much soul protection
They will never go to hell

No one knows about them
But in this field the dead still lie
About a mile east of Vickston
With the road, cars passing by
No one will go up there
To tend those who came before
So, they'll sleep soft here forever
And dream of life forever more

I wish I knew why certain things just roll right off
But others choose to stick.
I wish I knew why words are flung without a thought
And cling to my mind forever.
I wish I knew why I’m not strong enough to accept
What I know is meant as a joke.
I wish I knew in advance which things I'll find hilarious
And which will bring me to tears.
I wish I could just let things slide off my shoulders
But some words are like glue.
I wish someone would see the pain behind the laugh,
When I don't actually get the joke.