When my lips don’t know how to dance with my tongue,
when my teeth are chattering to an orchestral clamour,
it means there is begging in my mouth,
the echo from with in,
urging, urging, urging,
purging for for a litany of words to be written.
I can do that with my hands,
like building a home,
fixing a car,
fighting a human,
I can imagine things,
manifest them through my limbs with relative ease,
I can write you your own deepest thoughts,
but this mouth meat,
is the gateway to everything that is wrong in the world,
and so I’ll leave it guarded and keep it tied like the rabid dog it is.
Why are these hands so capable though,
and silence such an easy scapegoat,
why is my tongue guilty by default,
with no fair trial at all,
and yet my hands are unshackled and free to do as they please.
It feels as though I’ve bought into it all,
that keeping your mouth shut is so rewardable,
and keeping your hands busy, also rewardable,
a convenience for mediocrity,
insurance for government and society.
Meanwhile, this heart aches to speak out,
they’ve cut my tongue into obedient pieces,
a relationship with God,
slave-hood cloaked as humility,
a closet poet,
a fixer of things only around his immediate circle.
W.E.
CREDIT: Image by Hiroharu Matsumoto
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