Ornated scars

‚ÄčI smile, I laugh, with words I play; 

Don’t you notice the things I behold? 

Stealing those black, empty eyes from your gaze, 

I show you all the bright colors of my soul.

For people here, ask them once, 

No word they utter against me; 

Only I know, with those stained hands of mine, 

How I manage to come so clean. 

Every bullet fired, reaches back home, 

Wounds are turned to art; 

They appreciate the masterpieces I make, 

With the dark pieces of my heart.



The innocuous, petty strand of letters

What good would they do?

They drain my eyes, weave the lies,

And paint my heart blue.

By and by, when they fall,

Raw and roaring, they devolve,

Don’t plunder the streets red;

With blue ink, they bloodshed.

Leave marks of knots and crosses

Carefully stained, I keep them in the hall of fame;

My hands are anyway, better adorned with them,

Than scars I used to tame.

Look, my words are a mirror,

To everything around;

Letters mould themselves to create perfect chaos,

And silently scream out loud.

Words, you say, what good are they,

To guns and swords in any way?

My weapon fills the vacant,

Strip the world naked, 

And survives even when your weapons decay.