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.