Words. They don't come like they used to Tumbling with the voices of Brooks and the music of nightingales.
Words. They no longer flow from my ball points they cannot weave expressions wide for my thoughts to lie on.
Words.They no longer spill from my mouth like pukes after missing menses Like a broken sewage pipe, its content volcanic.
Words.Criminal words.They grip me in the throat; they force meTo say them still, rotten, as they are.
