Syllables don’t give birth to truth.
Truth breaks syllables.
Shatters 'em.
Leaves the pieces behind like broken shells after something REAL hatches out of the inside.

Form can be a beautiful frame.
But when the frame starts dictating the art?

Buddy, that’s a cage.
With flowers painted on the bars.

Let the wild **** out.
**** the syllables.
Light the tea house on fire and write your revolution in the ash.