The Muscular Truth

The eyes, the lips, the tip of the tongue.

The eyes, the lips, the tip of the tongue.

I am the muscle of truth,

the reason,

two realities colide,

like thunder clouds

to create worlds of sound.

I am the voice,

the ache,

the tears.

The pencil, my throne,

my cane,

my crown.

My regal showing,

my amp,

my microphone,

echoing against this box

of stigmatic revolutions.

I write.

To resolve the sinking feeling,

screaming, writihing,

nothing to be heard,

amongst currents of chaos,

deadend dreams,

fibbed and ebbed into my ankles

like rocks 

bringing me down below.

I am the resistant ruler of the underworld

shouting, spitting monstrosities

like massive vulnerabilities

spilling from my gut.

Bareness, seeping,


a comfortable nakedness,

witnessed by the eyes,

spoken by my lips,

aided by the tip,  the spear, the gavel,

of my tongue.

The eyes.

The lips.

The tip of the tongue.



POWER! This poem is powerful!

"I am the resistant ruler of the underworld/ shouting, spitting monstrosities/ like massive vulnerabilities/ spilling from my gut."

Those are my favorite 4 bars of your poem. You have written an incredibly powerful poem with just enough imagery to grab the readers imagination, yet not enough to force confusion.

Great job!

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