Your Fire
...eyebrows singed and blistered forehead, fingers black beyond repair, and letters stuck inside my lips, fused from everlasting heat.
NO, I DON'T WRITE POEMS, SIR, THEY'RE MUCH TOO HARD TO RHYME. MY BEAT AND RHYTHM DO NOT WORK. IT TAKES ME TOO MUCH TIME. AND PUTTING ANY THEME IN THEM, OH NO, THAT'S MUCH TOO HARD. I WRITE JUST WHAT COMES FROM MY PEN; THERE'S NOTHING IN MY HEART.
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