Your words are poison
Dripped into my ears
A viscous dark goo
To manifest my fears
Your words are like strings
So I have no control
Everything I do
You are always in the know
Your words tear me down
Am I six feet under
Would I rather drown
Or be burnt asunder
Your words are like bricks
They leave bruises on me
Burden my shoulders
There are no marks to see
Your words are power
Caused by devastation
Someone who hurt you
How you manifest them
Your words are like pain
They are both yours and mine
Only happy when hurt
You've etched into my spine
About the Creator
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My Hill
I sat upon the hill looking down at the battle that ensued. I could hear the swords clashing like that of thunder. The screams of the men below were carried on the wind as it gently blew through my hair. The grass felt like soft furs between my fingertips as I ran my fingers across it. Men and horses made their way through the battlefield some stumbling on the bodies of their comrades and that of their enemies. My finger pricked by a small thistle as my hand had glided dangerously close to the prickly plant. A small dot of crimson formed upon my finger as a man was cut deeply by a metal thistle of his own making. I sucked on the small wound and looked to the sky. The sun was bright and the clouds were nowhere to be seen. A perfect day.
By Christopher Foster4 years ago in Poets
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So you decided to become an "Advanced Practice" nurse. Congratulations!... is what I would say if this was a good idea. Grad school? In this economy? What were you thinking? Likely it was something along the lines of either 1) “I've seen these other chucklefucks do it— Why can't I?” or even 2) “I've got a nice career, I should shake it up. I miss feeling like I have no clue what I'm doing.”
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