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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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