Some are content to follow the herd; others heed only the forest's song!
I started writing because I was afraid of being silent. Because the world is loud and messy and often refuses to listen. Words are my refuge and my rebellion, a way to carve meaning from chaos and speak truths that are too sharp for polite conversation. Here, poetry and pointed thoughts collide, unfiltered and unapologetic, for anyone brave enough to read them.
I write for restless minds, for hearts that won’t settle, for those who question, who challenge, who feel deeply in a world that often values comfort over honesty. This is The Sharp Tongue.
— Tabitha M.
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Hello World!
Sometimes the smallest things demand the most attention. A fly landed on my desk last night, buzzing like it owned the place. I watched it, curious and annoyed, wondering what it saw from its tiny perspective. It made me thing about the world – the things we notice, the things we ignor
March 20
The Hum of Minds: Hello World!– I drift through the doorway,
on wings too small to hold the air, buzzing softly in the warmth of thought.
Every vibration tugs at me, tiny currents carrying words I cannot grasp, yet long to taste.
I land lightly on a windowsill, legs barely brushing the edge, and the air hums with meaning that coils and shimmers like sunlight on water.
Hands tremble over invisible lines, fingers tracing storms of thought. Faces tilt, eyes narrowing and opening, like petals breathing in the light. I cling to a frame, hover close enough to feel the pulse of brilliance, and I shive with reverence.
The spaces between their words hang like dew in the morning air, and I sip the silences, small, trembling, unable to hold it, but knowing their weight in my wings.
Tables and ledges are my perches, edges that let me drift without disturbing, and I taste the warmth of creation in every subtle gesture, the trembling of minds reaching toward something both fragile and immense.
I dart under shadows, circle the sway of a hand, and the hum of my wings carries the echo of ideas too vast for walls, too alive for anyone to notice fully.
I am tiny. I am unnoticed, and yet I know the fire in the room, the quiet pull of thought that bends the air, the small tremor of insight that lingers long after the voice has moved on.
When the doors open, I am carried into the current, still vibrating with wonder. I bear it all – the brilliance, the quiet ache, the impossible light of minds at work, and even in my smallness, I feel it:
what it is to touch something eternal.
The Sharp tongue 