Should it Kill You to Write It
Spilling blood upon the page
Writing your life in colour
Sounds so melodramatic
And yet, after reading the suite
Of poems dealing with that year
When darkness ruled days
And night was just more day
Framed with wings despotic
That fluttered wildly overhead
Then speaking those words aloud
No matter how softly the attempt
Whispering even, if you were able
The echo haunted every corner
Of your psyche; each part you
Thought well hidden, secreted
Battened down, sealed away
Safe from damage, any harm
Wielding a pen might inflict
Pens or other writing implements
Appear so innocuous, innocent
Instruments of massive pain
Are indeed mightier than most
Weapons, swords the least
Of them – words are bombs
Landmines, guiltless appearing
Simple to the gullible, safe
To the careless, those unwitting
Or unwilling to face up to their
Power; writing out life may
Well be what ends it, yours
Or others – so, do be judicious,
Wise to the consequences
Of writing out your life poetic
My Mum used to say "sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you." I always disagreed with her. Now you're saying the same thing. Maybe there is a grain of truth, though - when you're killed by a bomb or a bullet, that's it, the end; but the impact of words can disappear over time.
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