When you see poetry language,
on my heart's inking,
I'm not the one it's coming from.
The emotions are leaking.

When you smell poetry language,
on my worn- out soul,
I'm not the one it's coming from.
The rotten inner pain is reeking.

When you touch and trace written poetry language,
from the root of my eyes,
it will water
but that high pitched sound,
I'm not the one it's coming from.
The eyes are squeaking.

When you taste poetry language
in my books,
I'm not the one it's coming from.
The brain is cooking.

When you hear poetry language,
blurts from my hands,
I'm not the one it's coming from.
The emotions are speaking.