the words

my lips are like a wall

but the words keep rising in my throat

sometimes they are hot, angry

burning my tongue, setting my soul

ablaze.

often, the words choke me.

they are dripping with regret, and

i know why we call it "word vomit"

because i want to expel them

from my mouth, but

some silent part of my brain

closes my lips, doesn't allow

the words to spew forth

and create their full, nasty impact.

yet

i have learned that the words

flow through my fingertips

and into a pencil

like water through a hose,

that poetry is an art form

and a medium with which to

paint my story,

that i, too, have a voice,

minus the spoken words.

This poem is about: 
Me

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