The art of Poesy

o

I keep my mouth shut
But i make sure
that my words will stung   
Once it started
to flee from my mouth.

Hatred,
I am filled with resentment.
I have blades in my tounge and
My bitter sweet
poetry conseal my wrath.

I'll tell you a secret,
Poetry is my bastille
and I am a prisoner
but then,
an erstwhile escapee.

Uhtceare; fifteen

Fountain of words