WMDs: Words of Mass Destruction

The idea for this cycle paper came to me in class when we were talking about how authors talk about their pens as weapons. I wanted to do the same. Believe it or not, I almost cried writing this poem. I took a few ideas and got melodramatic with them. Again, don't take anything too seriously. Ha, what is it with teenagers and dark poetry? I hope I don't get too POE-tic. Get it? Ah well, for those who know poets, you'll understand the bad pun.

I am a raging red fire
Passionate and dangerous
My words soar out like flying embers
Driven by emotion
No fear nor second thought of holding them in

When I communicate with people
I transform my words into flying daggers
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The knives pierce their minds and hearts
They get my point

Word weapons are my freedom
I thrive on their power
I see blood flowing red
Radiant dark red like me

I revel in metaphors
They are hidden tools to comprehension
Others fear them
But they give me my edge
Metaphors sing of subtle beauty
But most won't seek to understand

I am protected by a lexicon arsenal
I collect each word slowly, and sharpen them to efficiency
For others value the size of vocabularies
But I value the effectiveness of them-big or small

Then,
When I'm not using my weapons
I listen to the quiet one speak

The words are different from mine: gentle and loving
Each like a kiss on the cheek
Like subtle metaphor beauty
Occasionally so quiet I miss the delicacies
Of their intended caress

I give responses
Each like a slap of romance
They are blunt, ardent, and straightforward
The words blithely burn his face red
The quiet speaker doesn't mind
He actually relishes it

But one day I sent two swords out at the quiet one
Both confessions of tragedies
One of the past
And one of the present

They sliced his heart and he cried out in pain
I realized what my words had done to him
Horrified by my lack of control

I saw his blood flow red
Red like me
Red because of my fault

I feared the wound was so great
He would never reply again
I shut my mouth; reckless cannon of destruction

Yet the quiet speaker lived
And he still comforts me
With words like serene blue waves
Rushing over my distressed fire
Like gentle forgiving embraces
I hug back, grateful for each moment

And with no mouth,
I simply gaze with my eyes
A more peaceful way to speak
While I ponder a way to use my words
As something other than weapons