We all carry a concealed weapon
All have since we've been young
Sharp as a knife, used a lot in life
The weapon is the tongue

It has the power to cut you down
Bring you to your knees
Also strong enough to lift you up
Both it does with ease

Yes, it can lift you up
Or it can cut you down
The latter is done far to often
Stabbing at the slightest sound

The problem with this weapon
Is the lack of self control
It comes out slicing and dicing
As if backed against a wall

We even turn it on ourselves
And carve like we're abstract art
Leaving not a mark upon the flesh
But wounding deep the heart

I've talked of using it as a knife
But it also doubles as a gun
Firing from long distances
Beware the weapon in use...The Tongue

I’m uncomfortable with a crowded room
partly because there’re so many personalities mashing into one
and too many conversations being held out of spite
i’m restless to the idea of meaningful small talk
because I truly do not believe in it’s existence
no one is happy to be here
and we’re all drowning our sadness
in different ways that no one would ever know
we're forcing ourselves to become one
and I will never understand

Sight has been stolen
We're robbed of our sounds
your pride has been swollen
We're lobbed out of bounds

Minds are abysmal
Burned in the flame
Of all that is dismal
Weakened or lame

Expecting a truth
But receiving a lie
Feeling so used
In dark ropes we're tied

Bound by a pact
Long ago we had made
Drowned in an act
That our families forbade

But once it was done
There was no turning back
A bright shining "sun"
Was the strength in my back

Feeling betrayed
Our life so delayed
Working unpaid
Happiness fades

Always we gave
Something away
Grace was not saved
Robbed of our grave

Look back on that mistake

You know the one

The one that makes you lie awake

The stratus that dims your sun



I know you think about that day

The things you would have changed

And that all the paths you could have strayed

Were all within your range



You can play it bit by bit by bit

And lead it to today

The thought of it might make you grit

That your slip still makes you pay



How could just one tiny lapse

Have lead you so off track

It’s hard to say, but just perhaps

A tiny shift could bring you back



If a butterfly can flap its wings

And cause a mighty storm

Then maybe just a little thing

Could bring a better norm



Life can change with just one act

We know already, this is fact

Imagine where your life could be

                                   If one more time, you switched the track

I still remember
What I long forgot.
Surprising
Memories have a flavour
a taste
a tone.
A life.

If you were to ever
want to return to me
I think that I would
rip apart the atmosphere
(tear it so shreds)
to close the distance between us
that has been growing exponentially
since you left

Does an optimist or a pessimist write the better poem?

Does an optimist with his rhyme and meter

Writing songs of love, nature, and spring?

Or are a pessimist’s dirges

Of bitter betrayal and loss more inspiring?



Both pessimists and optimists sing

Soft, yet loudly their own song.

So who writes the better poem?

What is the better song?

One of the marriage bed,

Or one of love gone wrong?



All sympathize with sadness;

All feel the pangs of joy.

Songs of rotten apples,

Or of bouncing baby boys?

So what expression does the better poet employ?



Truth is they touch us daily.

All just parts of life.

Tears and laughter not unique to ******* or wife.

Yes maybe optimists and pessimists are not so far apart,

For both pessimists and optimists capture the human heart.