A long time ago,

I said that words only bring trouble.

And I still believe that.

It’s why I stopped writing so ferociously.

So recklessly.

I know I was being negligent.

And I don’t know which is worse,

all the words ignited by my pen,

or the ones I never lit?

Is what I said worse than what I didn’t?

Because words have power,

Too much sometimes.

And they burn inside me.

Like a match,

Like a tea light,

Like a Babylon candle,

Like a winter wood stove,

Like a summer evening bonfire,

Like a sunrise.

My thoughts are singed,

charred,

scorched,

scalded.

There is too much smoke

prickling my eyes.

Too many regrets

seared onto pages.

Too many ashes

dancing on the wind.

I did plead guilty

to all this arson

But it was only in self defense.

Because I didn’t know any better.

But what’s my excuse now?

I can no longer condone it.

Maybe this punishment is enough.

I’m still haunted by all t(his) poetry