They whittle their words into weapons
With a dark, demented glee that rivals
The most sadistic of craftsmen.
They plunge the tips of their blades
In a venom much more toxic than
Strictly necessary, hoping that even
A grazing blow will be enough
To bring me to my knees.
But luckily, I don’t exist.
My feelings, as explained to me
To by so-called experts and couch-surfing
Savants, are a cry for help.
Crocodile tears don’t burn;
Scars made in response to harmless banter
Don’t even have the decency to show up
On time, despite how often I invite them.
The people I love are an illusion,
A smoke-screen invented by whatever
Opposing party needs a smoke-screen today.
Our feelings can’t be hurt, because
They aren’t real. And since my feelings
Weren’t hurt, what the Hell do I have to
Complain about in the first place?
So they invent new items to bombard me
With, MORE DAKKA! To hurl at,
Well, I guess by their own admission
Nothing. Which, I suppose, begs further
Questions. For example, dear reader,
If me and mine aren’t real people with real
Feelings, then why are you so damned
Upset that we exist?
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