How terrifyingly sincere are those words,
Which never left your mouth,
The words, that still exist only on the tip of your tongue,
Those words, igniting fire inside of you,
Fire, most people won't get near to,
Fire, that's only seeming smoke to others,
Your own words, having the courage to destroy you,
Purposelessly, of course,
Like a child eager to play, throwing toys at you,
Only, that he doesn't intend harm,
Words, unspoken of,
Words, mentioned of only,
In the darkest corners of your mind,
Words, stringing along forming a dangerous story,
Story, all yours,
Words, still yours,
Why so then, do they seem foreign?
Why do they put up like a tenant, in a place,
That's all theirs?
Why do they run and hide in the coils of our mind,
Each time we wish to spit them out?
Words, that are horrified,
Of being rejected by the hearer,
Words, that are born by those few,
Who know where to press the right nerves,
Or, the wrong ones, maybe?
Words, that were never ours,
Words, that are all yours,
Words, that obstruct the potential,
Only for being rendered unspoken,
Words, that'll always be so terrifyingly sincere,
Words, that are innocent,
Funny things, words.