the old poet's going for broke

the years have worn away the melody from my verse

and now, I’m simply talking at you,

with the same sincerity that accompanies blood boiling,

only a lot less smooth.

I’m finding my emotional chatter doesn’t translate well.

And maybe I am too old to learn a second language,

but I have been listening to the discourse in my veins for so long, I want nothing more than to share it with you.

The language of self cannot be recounted

with tongues and mouths.

It is in the breaths inspired

to fill the chest

and the vibrating

of boxes in thoats; the places we choke on

sentiments there are no words for.

It is the heart pumping blood into a battle cry.

How

can

I

give

this

to

you?