After birth we’re pure emotion.
Before words are learned,
We’re like an ocean,
Before islands are turned.

Words punctuate our feelings.
They disrupt the current.
They stem innate healings,
Cut short a potential deterrent.

Perhaps it’s best to let loose our rages
Fill our souls with unnamed delights
Try not put them to pages
In bookage minds that demand insights.

Does language enhance our senses,
Or merely subdue instinctual forces?
Do we no longer see natural fences
That block various courses?

Can I actually sing my song
When its’ lyrics are faulty words?
Does it really matter to define right from wrong?
Can I ever fly as free as birds?

Does language separate me from exhilaration?
Does it besot purity of desire?
Does it promote exasperation?
Does it extinguish internal fire?

Alas, it doesn’t matter.
A brain once programmed demands an answer.
It can’t accept a sensual scatter.
It’s a kind of intellectual cancer.