There’s something deeper
just beneath my skin that’s making me itch.
I can’t think any more
every thought is becoming actual words.
(You want to talk about the real
definition of speaking your mind?)
Sing out my soul and
write/right my wrongs.
My heart rests on my tongue.
It tastes of cyanide, stomach acids and lies.
Lace every word with a bit of it.
Every word either covered in a form of
poison or dishonesty.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I’m sorry isn’t enough.

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