Word Sickness: The Road to an Opinion-less Existence

Forced to remove the good vocabulary tumor

When words seem to be slipping off the tongue

As if acid rain could possibly come from the mouth

Of an innocent flying into the abyss of permanent corruption

Choking on syllables of individuality going down the wrong pipe

Concluding that a good book cannot be the ultimate cure-all

Only a chainsaw and the skilled hands of a word Nazi surgeon

Who can easily and quite willingly erase all traces of the tumor

From the brain in order to sit like a mute in the corner

Choking on razor blades, pride, and cayenne pepper

Washing it down with curdled whole milk

Inhaling Dove soap like its Swiss chocolate

Burying the machine guns and verbal machetes

In the backyard next to the personal pet cemetery

And near the tallest oak tree in the yard for shade

Changing clothing to nothing but burlap bags and mud smiles

Sealing the deal by legally changing name to persona non grata

Ignoring the need to write freely for the world to see

Because the opinion of a hotheaded nobody does not matter

In a world where people get dosed by a overhead sprinkler

For flapping their gums like overzealous birds too much

Best to keep heads in the sand and waiting until the word storm passes

And hits another soul with the strength to accept tongue lashings.