Our only Language

As an escape, I write down the gifts and emotions spritzing from my cerebrum in a style of motion that sways me from the everyday notion that never seems to be honest with itself or open. Still, I manage to set forth a potion with years of act and devotion that somewhat swindles into a session feeding my obsessions of love and possession. That potion, made up of words, wasn't the first to be made. Beyond the worlds, racing old and stunting young, a language was taught, but now what's taught is our language. If this language has taught me anything, it was that there is no other language bidden and bided by humans that is poetry.