these words
times on the tip of my tongue
they wait
wait to be spilled
as rain would slide down
a roof of tin
or at the back of the
throat
waiting
to be spit
out
as song
from
bird
that;s
taken wing
in a dark corner
of
my
state of mind
hidden
by
reality
or
as
it
seems
in whispers
that
echo
from
places
moments
times
from heart
break
laughter
wanting
these
words
j Sweptson
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