The words tickle me
violently
Racing through my vocal cords,
rather escaping
evacuating.

Leaving this contaminated
lump of beating tissu
to it's own devices.

Later days would promise
words less vacant
less short.
Less high
pitch.

But it's the words that drive me,
urge me.
The beauty in their silence,
the love in their whisper.
The monotone plea.
unspoken.

Take it.
I don't want it anymore.
The broken part of me,
the poet part of me.
Were I scientist
I'd be sane.

But I am not
a man of numbers.
I am not a man.
person.
I am an artist.

And a poet's scream
is written.
Not heard.

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