When syllables form on my tongue,pass my lips,and roll over my ears it may sound like poetry,
It's not.It's me rearranged in puzzle,hidden by verse to blur my face.
When letters roll across the page,morph into words,and whisper a secret it may sound like poetry,
It's not.It's last week's fight,yesterday's scab,and today's scar.
When sentences build paragraphs and paragraphs paint stories it may sound like poetry,
It's not poetry.It's everything I can't say.
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