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If a pen is mightier than the sword that wills, why is it so few realize it kills?

By
The Meaning of Life…an oxymoron.
There never really was one.
Why ask, and why receive?
Even if you must believe.

Call me young, I could care less,
Most adults know little of the rest.
A label on youth, a trend on fire!
None of that we ever did desire.

We are braver than you, this we know.
In some places words are dangerous on show.
Yet still you persist! Each of us has a name!
And this contest seems little but a child’s game!

Do you remember why you began to write?
Do you recall why so many keep their journals in sight?
You have secluded yourselves, to put our souls on display,
Tempting us in, to twist our words today!

I’ll write in as asked, so listen well.
As clichéd before, I’ve my own story to tell.
We may be young, but we’re not blind.
Each paper you hold has been borne from our kind.

Each drop of ink is a drop of our blood,
And you, the surgeons, should act as you should.
Their fates are yours. At your hands, each will pale.
For you cannot see their tears when they fail.

I write to you, not as a poet,
In this world, it’s too dangerous to show it.
Surgeons of broken dreams, take care
Perhaps there was someone who loved them in there.





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