if i were to craft a poem
i won't be able to
my pen won't let me
or rather my mind won't do
my head's like a broken pot
barely housing the rusty soil
where not a plant could grow
not even a weed that's free and wild
but i got a soul who sings
when my mouth's out of pitch
i got a heart that trembles
from hearing sounds that make it feel
so i pick up my pen the second time
and try to forge some words
out of the crevices of my body
to shape my inmost voice with poems
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