Rip that first line in half,

he didn’t mean to make you laugh

when the words wanted out,

though when he tried to shout

the letters just fell

like he was under a spell,

and his chest felt heavier still

so he grabbed a feather quill

and a bottle of ink

to write on instinct,

he knew no prose

but wrote like a rose,

leaving sounds sharp as thorns

with every word he adorns,

though still torn,

weathered, and worn,

he writes still

and works his fill

and day after day,

his hand can’t keep away

from whatever word

needs to be heard

by the people he swore

to bring a brand new lore,

and just off his chest—

wait until he unloads the rest.