Words

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Words unsaid are fickle and meak.
Longing to be free,
Chained to our tongues within the steel bars of our mouths.
They always ask how you're doing, needy and frail,
But they never seem to remember your birthday.
They can drive you to madness too.
You beg them to leave,
But they just sit and stay,
Obedient.
The words we do say can be worse.
Like wild dogs set loose,
They could fill others with gold, overflowing.
Or, they could attack the ears of those we love.
Some bloody stumps remain.
Unpredictable.
A gamble either way.
So the question stays;
To keep them in?
Or let them out?






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