What on Earth

Are my words enough to knock you down,

Kick in your teeth and make you frown?

Be the last thought of waking day, digested, growing cold and heavy in the pit of your stomach, waiting to strike. Soon as you lay down, they slide back up your digestive tract, the acid burns with each breath, they slowly squeeze your throat and smother you into insomnia. Only to wake up hours later within minutes, and they are found on the front of your mind. Branded. Hot, seeing spots like dot mirage through scarlet heat. Can my words make you feel like your every stitch of cotton was forgotten and your new clothes this new suit isn't suitable to wear in public, or private or anywhere in between. Can they make you feel like the flag on a mailbox old, dated, irrelevant, sure you know why it's there but do you even care.

Can my words make you smile? Can my words make you let out eruptions that'll make St. Helen blush, laugh like jackhammer, cough up coffins spit stuttering sarcastic syllabus. A symphony of joy, every note on every instrument in the orchestra played by one pair of lungs, tears trailed to crescendo. Could a stroke of my sentences soothe your stress? Wrap sunny San Diego sand gently around your feet. Melt away down, dissipate daily disappointing dilemmas. Everyone think you have to pee, but you are actually just so excited to hear the next ones..

Because your words do that to me too.

What on Earth are we to do?