tisk tisk...

It’s not the words that hurt. It’s the inconsistency that strikes a nerve. The ware tares the protection from the depths of worth. In moments where the point is somehow never heard. Tongues haven’t a thing they cannot lie about. As lips shape the sounds coming from the mouth. To be is to live as to be truly found. In sights following motion as a witness to common grounds. Without the basics eventually forgetting of a so called friend is all there is. Feeling the drift of a smile fade away and unable to be missed. Losing the tickle in the ribs as laughter is dismissed. The only thing it’ll ever be is tisk tisk. As fists won’t risk self to fight for what she’ll not be. Pain isn’t caused by letters rearranged into phrases spat as we breathe.