My mouth I do think,
is munching my words.
How weirdly my tongue,
Still seeks out the norm.
A slobbering salivation,
of unwritten sayings,
My teeth a brazen thief,
nibbling thoughts in the night.
Lips obscenely shaped,
in the poets’ hungry quest,
For the strange articulate taste,
Of a pilfered sour waste,
from bland and bleary words,
I am forever forced to swallow.