Words

Words

Words,

They can cut as deep as any blade ever will.

They leave a stinging with no explanation,
No way of showing how they sting,

A weep which cannot be explained.
So we suffer inside,

And it eats us up slowly.

So you create an explanation,

A way of explaining the pain.

Something that represents those words that cut,

Just like the blade,

Which you press against your skin.

The stinging it creates,

The skin that slowly parts.
Leaving not a mark,

Until the red tide trickles,

Down the virgin skin.

Yet for a moment,

You can convince,

That pain inside is pain from wound.

And a strange sense of satisfaction,

Permeates the mind.

And a sick sense of enjoyment,

Fills you to the brim.

It makes you nearly sick,

These words they bother,

Not the man of words.
And yet it so does bother you,
So much it really hurts.