They are just to be read.

These words may not make you cry,
And they may not make you smile,
They may not even lift you up,
Like little red riding hood’s, little red stilettos.

But i’ll be damned if I can’t write,
Have to walk with my silhouette
infront of me in day light and at night.
And have to crawl, with my tongue behind my teeth.

My words with which I write and speak
may not cause your heart to crack,
break the chains on society’s back,
Or cause you to stutter over your sentences.

But i’ll be damned if my jaw is snapped back,
the whites of my eyes painted black,
my voice box roped, and choked,
And my song stopped.

These words, which make you frown,
discuss the ups and downs,
critic, and jeer and harmonise your sneers,
are here, and are not going anywhere.
They will keep on coming.