If you’re reading this, you know this poem’s addressed to you. Once again, I’m sorry for saying what I said, and not knowing when to stop or what to do. But I have learnt my lesson, and I hope I’ll prove that in time to come.

 

The Pipe.

The Mouth
It is the Devil’s pipe.
The ghoulish music it makes
seeks only to hurt
not to mend.

It does not know when
to stop playing.
But then again,
neither does its owner.

 

It always plays the same tune,
insulting, scathing,
like a jeer that gets stuck
in your head,
with all the voices taunting,
flaunting, haunting.

 

Two weeks, two weeks
Still no end.
The pipe still plays the tune
that is Devilsend.
It never learns,
anything new.
The pipe is dead,
and it’s owner has no clue.

 

Two weeks, two weeks,
and it is only at crescendo.
No stopping, no stopping,
full of innuendo.

 

But snap- It breaks in half!

 

 

A hand, oh, mighty hand!
that forcefully snaps it shut.
In half.
So the sound is lost.
Only the coarsest whisper can be heard
The darkest hour neared.

A threatening gesture,
that hand did make,
more than the pipe did it
dare to break.
Musician, muse, and mind
in a fiendish grip,
almost to shatter, but not yet.
Only to be left with a tip.

 

Wisdom, though covered with
much venom and hate,
did not go unheeded.
The musician lay in wait.
Only to agree, and understand
all that was said.

 

An apology, a soliloquy,
a rhyme and a time
For a second chance,
that poor old dunce,
Did ask for.
Nothing less, already so much more.
And the musician, now a fool,
waits silently,
quietly, without utterance,
for an answer he may never get.

 

Thus, the pipe lay broken
Unmendable in fact,
but the message it left,
remained very much intact.

 

“Do not play,”
The message read.
“Unless you wish to make
someone very sad,
or to hurt and main those
you call friends.
Those who play the Devil’s pipe
come to no good ends.”