stop. don’t stop. don’t. stop.

If I ever stop writing poetry or even writing altogether,
I may inexplicably punch myself in the heart
because it would kill me even further to hold the words in
when I barely speak at all
My dove heart fluttered haphazardly through my throat
leaving me speechless
I can only ink pieces
upon pieces
of the rhymes I’ve dropped
Who is going to be touched
by my scheme next?
Whose emotion is going to
fly out of their chest?
Did I not write enough words
to keep a steady plot?
Even Lucifer thinks I’m
burning too hot.
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
If I ever bring my pen too far,
will you tell me to stop?

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