words hardly do actions justice
and in the means of what you believe is right
you'll be surprised to find
spilled into the air
is in actuality
Spewed upon the imperfect page,
burn holes swallowing every letter
as if it's the first time.
First time they've been said
first time you've spoken those words.
You have to forgive before you can move on
but what if you hide it
underestimated satisfaction in the guilt,
the guilt you lost long ago
you only puncture the paper twice,
before ripping it to shreds
before you realize you don't want this
you never did.
Instead you steal those words,
throw the paper in flames
waiting patiently for the next one-
same as all the rest-
who swarm in and deliver the same lines,
As if it's a cued movie.
You're repetitive lines don't seem to phase me anymore
they lost their meaning long ago
to this day,
though I picked up each flamed scrap-
and glued them each together-
I don't believe it-
Though I wish I could