Poetry and I

He was stuck with a bone in his tongue
Is it my fault if he would be careless?
With my poetry

The dogs won’t chew stationeries
Designed with graphical thoughts and feel
As I would every inch of his tongue
When smoke sets to flee

And he would twist and swish
Like floss scrapping candies from faults
Before any bitch would sniff his tongue
And scrape all corners of his beauty

Thick and warm when he brushes ink
Over papyrus that covers me
I become more me than the observer’s eyes
And you could see
He kneeling before me

For more words and shelter
He dipping in bones
Of my poetry.