Sticks and Stones

Wed, 04/19/2017 - 20:40 -- SamWall

At 6 I never had a friend

So when someone came up to me and said

“Bare your soul and I'll give you the lint from my pocket,”

I told her, “You can pay me by being a friend.”

At 6 I still didn't have a friend.

At 6 I learned not to tell people how you felt because it put you in the perfect position for pain

When she told my crush that I liked him.

And when I cried they told me not to

Because sticks and stones may break my bones

But it was always words

That made my skin feel too tight

Like plastic stretched over leftovers that nobody wanted.

It was words that made me look at the ground when I walked;

Made me miss the scenery.

It was words that broke my heart the first time.

Every time after it was words that filled in the cracks in my soul just to crack it again

Because even though they say that words have no power,

 

They preach that the pen is mightier than the sword

That the written word has more power than any weapon would.

That's always seemed strange to me because words are swords.

And like the story of Damocles

I had the sword just above my head

As people like scissors sharp went toward the thread

I yelled for them to stop

And when the words hit, I feel my heart drop.

Swords, not sticks and stones

Made kings abdicate thrones.

Here sits an empty throne.

 

I feel like all I’ll ever be is skin, bone, word

Because the soul isn’t something heard

A broken bone is placed above a broken beat because the heart’s rhythm isn’t something seen.

It isn’t something you can bandage when it breaks

Patch up with some tape

Bend back into shape.

When the soul breaks it’s a personal prerogative to place it back in place and fix the failing features of a dying thing.

Is the heart free?

Is the soul free?

Because it seems to me that it’s worth pocket lint and just about everything you are.

So emotional emancipation has become tying down your feelings and fearing that one day someone will noticed them tossed to the back of your mind.

That they’ll look around your mind and say, “What’s that?”

And you’ll say “Nothing important. Nothing that can be broken by sticks and stones.”

 

They say sticks and stones

Nobody’s hurt me with those.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
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