1.3

My tongue was born to be in anything, but a cage.

It conceals pain in the very blisters

Earned by each time I refuse to open.

In most times, the gusts of winds have no match 

At the speed I display in the strict 

Silence of my ANGER.

For what is pink must be black, 

Since the tongue speaks darker 

Than the mind could understand. 

The secrets hiding in muscle, 

Ache to be released, 

Not caring if blood is spilt.