My bones
are relative to paper.
A compass tip seems sharp enough
to prove my point;
I'm engraving poetry into my bones.
Paper is too thin and the weight of my words
fall short and to the floor;
I scoop them up before you notice.
I can never find the right thing to say.

My throat was cut when the words escaped
and my opinion was heard by all:
I am a mute now, or at least that's what I'm told.
You stole the words right out of my mouth
but at least now I cannot disagree.

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