Scissors

There is a pair of scissors I used to use
Black and red and petitely shaped
I cut up words with it
And paste them on walls
I read them and
They give me a
Pat on the back

I grow older and so do those scissors
The words I cut out form sentences, yes
They jumble together until they produce meaning
I give myself
A pat on the back

When he died the scissors lay
On the table, where no one ever used them
The words became angrier and angrier until I
Grabbed the scissors and slashed through them, and they
Floated to the ground

There are no words anymore
Just me and a pair of dusty old scissors
They don't slash words any more, only two wrists
And there are no more pats on the back