literature

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You can try speak to me as if I've heard you, the way a person hears a bullet pass through the barrel of a gun, but you don't have that kind of power, you don't have the power in your words that I have. Your constant muttering is filled with tales and fibs, cutting off the weaker parts of me, allowing me to grow stronger. You don't bring me pain that I can't use. I've always found the source of your flaws to be fruitful, because when you send me bitter love, I can always recycle the paper and write a poem about it. I can publish it and expose the darkness by shedding my own light. I can take your hatred and crush it between my hands like dried leaves, turning death into spices, and from spices to gourmet meals, my eyes tearing, my nose running, clearing out the toxic-kindness I once valued over my own happiness.

There is nothing in you more powerful then me, because your power is dependent on my perspective, you are a shadow in the night, a paper tiger by day, and a tormented soul while you sleep, awaking with a twitch every hour passing, hoping to crawl out from your own skin.

I have not given you my heart, I've held it far from you, from the day I was twice two. You have broken from me the yolk that shared the veins between us, and for that I pray thankful for infected blood is more carcinogenic sickness itself.

It's blood that creates me, and it's blood that can forsake me better then any friend or foe, because it plays as both, and I carry it with me no matter how far I travel. You were a storm in the afternoon, a virulent wind that had no eye to spare me, but the words you speak are powerless if I give them my creed to be so. For the things you've tried to take from me, my mind, my innocence, my eternal soul, they will never be close enough for you to touch. You will see me in your last dreams, as you plead for your age to give you a few more years of mercy.

You, the darkest of souls, will one day soon, see the beings that haunt you in the closest and most intimate of ways. You, who crawl into hidden places in your heart and make love to evil, will beg for nothing more then to be purified from unspeakable transgressions, and God will hear you, and he will forgive you.

But even on that last day, the words you've uttered against me, will echo in the past, float up on the beach-side, and fly through the wind, because words never die. People pass away like trees, some dead and still standing long before they fall, but deceased nonetheless. They soon leave new ground for growth and are forgotten. However, words never die, they live and thrive in the hearts and minds of Truth and Lies.

You will cry out in a broken song, to finally feel what you've neglected for so long, and the words you speak will be silent, passive, empty, grasping. I will no longer be around to hear. You don't have the power in your words that I do, because lies are passive entities when faced with the truth.
© 2014 - 2024 ZahrahLeona
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