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The same twenty-six scribbles compose every story

I’ve ever fallen in love with.

The same chords write every song

That’s ever touched my soul.

The ability to create something beautiful

And I can only use it to hurt.

A combination of ancient languages

With symbols we’ve adopted as our own

Define every interaction on this blessed planet

We call home.

To weave such an intricate string of sounds and symbols

Should be revered as the greatest culmination

Of human ingenuity

And I tarnish it with every whisper from my lips.

Forgive me, creators of our spoken word

For the destruction of this holy gift

And forgive me, my friend

For it is you who has been hurt.