The Muscular Truth

The eyes, the lips, the tip of the tongue.

The eyes, the lips, the tip of the tongue.

I am the muscle of truth,

the reason,

two realities colide,

like thunder clouds

to create worlds of sound.

I am the voice,

the ache,

the tears.

The pencil, my throne,

my cane,

my crown.

My regal showing,

my amp,

my microphone,

echoing against this box

of stigmatic revolutions.

I write.

To resolve the sinking feeling,

screaming, writihing,

nothing to be heard,

amongst currents of chaos,

deadend dreams,

fibbed and ebbed into my ankles

like rocks 

bringing me down below.

I am the resistant ruler of the underworld

shouting, spitting monstrosities

like massive vulnerabilities

spilling from my gut.

Bareness, seeping,

spilling,

a comfortable nakedness,

witnessed by the eyes,

spoken by my lips,

aided by the tip,  the spear, the gavel,

of my tongue.

The eyes.

The lips.

The tip of the tongue.