Post Script

The brutality of my honest mouth,
weighs short into a world of stenciled oddities,
frayed denim meshed with soft words of denial,
and I sound off at inaudible levels,
finding my voice offensive to my own senses,
and so I often pinch the connection between head and tongue,
yet the thoughts throb onward and I struggle to read their scrawl.

Rigid letters that spell in primary colors,
run through my mind and rewrite my very instinct,
while I fumble for my mental spectacles,
yet I cannot rescind any responsibility,
even as they run end to end in my head,
it is still mine, I have not lost my mind.