I must write a poem
symphony of synonyms
hurricane of hyperboles
mobocracy of metaphors

floodgates in my fingers
obstruct my insanity.
No monsoon of carefully selected
adjectives, nouns, verbs
storming blank parchment
running ink stores dry.

Instead I simply gawk
at the word-worthy world.
Write poems on the seams of my skin
and under my eyelids.

Engrave the secrets of my crux
in the stem of my brain.

Cut out my own tongue.
Useless in formation of my phrases,
they are inconceivable
to modern man.

You'll never see my madness untill you examine my insides
cut me open, unravel the mystery in my cold blood,
Find me dead and read my lips.
they will be stuck in a
morbid *smile