It levels hearts with earthquakes,
Spins our thoughts around the wind.
It's hurricanes of falses,
Have us locked within.

It spawns a breed of hatred,
That I write, atop my desk.
Deceiving, looming, overhead,
Unknowing, I'm depressed.

It wisps around the candle,
From the base to flickered wick.
It huffs and puffs the houses,
Not loved, or made with brick.

They create such minor masterpieces,
That no one else will read.
It starts out as the flytrap,
Without planting a seed.

Sometimes we are sober,
Some of us, that is.
It might be hard arranging pieces,
No one studies for this quiz.

But everybody takes it.
Only some of us may pass.
And those who have achieved their ranks,
Supply the aftermath.

Would I be a part of,
The journey now half through.
Would I add unto the bloodshed,
Or intensify the hue.

Would I drop the shield and dagger,
And fall unto the spear.
Would I sit through your words,
Or within them, disappear.

My excuse would be my failures,
Or were they, too, spoon fed.
Subliminally whispering,
My worth, into my head.

'Tis these that can destroy us,
Or that which we endure.
'Tis words that make or break us,
Upon the endless spoken war.

 
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