My WMDs

Ah yes the familiar scribble
On that crisp clean sheet
Of white lined paper

Some words here and there
A speck of dust
And some thoughts
Noisily jotted down
Into fine print.

Some say tis a work of art
Speaking without really saying

Anything.

Anything my heart desires
Anything that my mind seems to run on repeat in endless cycles,
Faster than my fingers can grip the pen and write.

Sometimes these thoughts are no longer a work of art,
Constructive

Sometimes they are a threat,
Destructive

How dare I challenge the status quo,
How dare I challenge the things you know
You speak
And you believe

How dare I do such a thing with nothing but a clean sheet of paper
And a leaky pen
That doesn’t write quite right?

Because just as these things are the funnel from my mind
To my hands onto the paper,
To creating something greater

They are a destructive force
Ready for a challenge
To write those distinctively destructive thoughts onto paper
Ready to send someone crashing down

All because they are my weapons of mass destruction
My paper and my pen

The only issue is
Where do I begin?

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One comment

  1. Reblogged this on Blue Suede Shoes and commented:

    I wrote this a long time ago. Sorta

    Like

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