sorry if some of the spelling and/or grammar is off, i wrote this at like 3 am ‼️
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Words are a weapon. In the right hands.
The simple adult man cannot utilize words to their full potential.
Words in the hands of a poet can scar. They can impact, they can persuade. They can sew seeds of doubt. Feelings of anguish or sentiment. Words can thrive in the ink stained hands of a poet.
A poet is hard at work in the forges of his chipped wooden desk. He probably had a splinter. Or two. He doesn't care enough to check.
The poet's pink hair tied up, except for a few stray strands that he had learned to ignore.
People whisper about the poet. Stories, rumors. A fall from grace. Some say he was a king, others say he was the fiercest soldier in the land, discharged after years of service. The poet doesn't mind, he actually didn't know either.
He isn't a royal, he knew that much. He knew little of castles and plays, but of cottages and basket weaving.
The words on his paper seemed like madness. Just a nonsensical jumble of words put together, but that's the beauty in it.
Some say the poet went mad, lost his mind in isolation. They say a boy went in, and a man came out. A closed off, prudent man who's words sounded sweet but driven by madness.
Maybe the large scar on his cheek was gasoline for the arsonists. Proof for the whisperers. He doesn't remember how he got the scar. Maybe it had to do with the boys in his dreams. He was a poet, how could he have gotten a scar as nasty as that?
The poet's hand was cramped. Pains shot up his arm. It was okay, though. He was almost finished writing. He could almost rest.
Or so he thought.
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hi guys 😏
im back
i say that, but i mean i never left, i just lost inspiration to write ‼️
