I don't write poetry, I speak it

My languish tongue
seems able to write
what my pen finds in short stock
for from it drips words of honey
that twirls warm like a cacophony
of caramel syrup in a stirring pot

but take that down to pen
with its drying up ink spots -
it breaks.
the caramel so fragile, so lucid -
snaps.

And I’m left with a few words
I can’t remember,
a thought undone,
and a voice,
an opinion, unheard.





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