Whispers of the Mind

Soul Stitches

We sat in corners.

Shrouded in books and words  that only we

Could understand.

While others laughed and sneered from the safety

Of malingering crowds.

They did not see what we saw.

For us, those words transformed.

People, cities, worlds.

We lived in universes of our own design,

Built from the letters of our minds.

And all the while they laughed.

In time I sharpened my words,

honed edges of pain and destruction.

Cutting and slicing the feelings of those who did me wrong.

I have not the right to condemn and punish those with words.

Within destruction I glimpsed the demons,

That tempt and plague us all,

Caressing us with whispers of justice and revenge.

Subtle silken fingers gently guiding kind hearts to rage.

We must become bigger than our demons.

Our words are what make us who we are.

We are the children of letters, the creators

Of worlds.

We are surgeons of the mind,

Stitching scars of strangers souls

with sentences from our hearts

And syllables from our souls.

All the time they laughed,

While we honed our words,

Orchestrating subtle symphonies of loving syllables.

Through destruction and guilt and anguish,

One truth holds strong above all else:

Casts and pills may heal your ills,

But words will mend your soul.