I’ve bitten my tongue,
Until I’ve chewed off all I have to say
That is why there is no poetry from the lips,
But people recognise when it comes from the inside of you.
Belly full of anxiety,
Liver full of anger,
Gut full of, I just can’t take it any more,
Regurgitation of all you ate,
Presented like a chef’s painting, easy to palate.
Maybe why, the world is in such disarray,
Is we won’t give our bodies the time it needs,
Allow the fermenting of words,
Basement barrels of ageing wine,
Instead ready to drink the moonshine.
We want answers now,
Unable to silence and quell ourselves,
So we’ve normalised extroversion as the default,
The super-being, the all knowing, all seeing,
Rise up and be all you are by being a walking billboard,
Jingle yourself, sell yourself, be yourself,
Be all you are by parading around as all you are not.
Fake it until you make it, is still fake,
Even if you make it past everyone,
You still haven’t made it past yourself.
I haven’t met many extroverted poets,
Their tongue is usually biting them.