The Hand is Bridled to the Heart


Why I write?  Why I write? 

The true query is why men speak

So often? 

So often when they do not mean what they say

nor understand what they mean

Or even care to

Politicians, Clergymen, Shoppers making small talk

No more substance than meringue

Monolithic no

There are always exceptions

My mentor My English teacher  Cliché I’m sure

Told me to question and analyze everything

including him

including his advice

Think freely think dynamically 

Things unclear in fog are apparent when stained in ink or dust

Whichever you prefer

Each clears the mind

But more importantly the heart

The immaterial has become the palpable

The pen is more honest than the tongue

Because to lie with the pen you must involve your own hand

Which is more subdued then the tongue

Will a man not raise his tongue against his lover sooner then he will his hand

The tougue emits the fumes of our burning chasms

Our own personal peditions 

Our pains our misfortunes our woes

But the hand is pragmatic

Not as bold 

But many times more honest

Our tongue manifest our hurt our feeling 

But the hand portrays the intention

And so i will not strike my beloved

But my hand will betray my love

In letter






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