February 18

Squeak. That voice in my head sometimes takes a week
or more, to grow from its meek whine to a roar,
for its troubles to become too loud to ignore.

Then, I no longer wish to offend,
my throat quenched. The one thing left behind,
some bouquet that’s bound in my mind. Dumb
instrument of ill-timed sense.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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