Words

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By bedazzled

I hang all my conscience on every small letter, convicted what broke me can still make me better. Words might warm my pulse, having turned it to ice but however you phrase it words are still my vice. Each syllable counting towards my demise yet each one I read with hunger in my eyes. I pick out the black lines to discover the white, removing the ink in my search for the light. Destructive then healing, these words we are dealing are no more than tokens for giving and stealing. But I still tent my hope upon frameworks of letters, so sure, oh so sure they can still make me better.

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