My words are my most intimate tool.
I carry them guarded, like the wired snitch.
No one hears them from my lips.
My words are simple vision
Lighting the shrouded path…
My weapon of choice.
They sometimes careen out of control
And other times they put an end to misery
This weapon holds back the angry mob
And comforts the defenseless.
My words are my most intimate tool.
They linger by my side and in my mind,
In every moment.
Waiting for the call to embrace
The emotion.
Sometimes my words are all I’ve got
They are the soft voice of my senses,
The map of my mind,
My soul’s cradle.

Oakling
April 9, 2003