I broke ope my pen and
let the ink fly,
setting off splatters
on a creamy page.
It raised quite a den,
smearing when I try
to set its smatters to
my char like rage.
What languages have
ripped apart their rules
only for the sake of a
quiet beat
even since the caves,
to art we bend our tools,
forgetting to bake, to
sleep, even eat!
Our language makes us,
and defines our ways,
driving our thoughts,
it renders who we are
plausible to trust by
setting our shames
into separate lots and
labels and cares
Inked words caught my heart, ‘n set my
mind ablaze.
I’m lost in their art, and stuck in
their maze.
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