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Image by Brett Jordan


(c) Linda Hutchison April 2020

I’ve done it again

I’ve spoken out of turn

My words have been thrust as spears

Jammed into the sides of others

A threat, an insult, a pointed barb

Once in, impeding your way, dragging you down

Were they intended?

If the depths of a heart are revealed in the outpourings of a mouth

Would my words feel like honey?

Or would they scrape down your soul like nails on a chalkboard?

My words gather around you

And meld with the words you already carry

Do they form a banner over your head, declaring you a failure?

Or do they read as a tiny footnote?

A disclaimer?

Do they add to the noise falsely declaring your worthlessness?

My speech is clumsy and heavy on your fragile soul

Quickly are heard the words, but slow to appear is their effect

A spoken vibration of death

Oh, what to do with the realisation that I am indeed imperfect

What I hurl at others could just as easily apply to me

I place a watch on my mouth

And reject the words of destruction

Our future depends on it.


Words: Work
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