You and me.

You are
the things that define you.

Cyclic, changing,
transient;
like your volatile ink;
the pixels on your screen;
your fickle moods
and the seasons you live through;
your voice that vanishes
into the air.

It's not a crime,
playing with words.
For though we've all heard
a million times over
what hurt they cause,
they're not weapons
after all.

Your words, though,
damage.

No,
you're not a good person.

Your moods will pass,
like everything else has.
Those pixels will replace your words.
The seasons will roll
for the heir of those you hate.
The paper with your ink
will crumble away.

Pride,
might give way
to non-existence
someday.

Your voice will be gone
and your words too.

I wish,
for you're not a good person.