Like a seamstress twirls thread
into pieces of clothing
I try to spin these words into thesis and poetry.

The flick of my tongue sends words on the run,
fleeing from captivity within the annals of Me
to scribe songs not yet sung.

It's a far-flung fetter, but there's not much better
than hearing a hesitant stutter learn to compose treasure.

I find pleasure in matching my mumbles to a measure,
time signatures and beats not discernable from my mind's infrastructure

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