Poetry growing in my spine
I can feel it when I bend
And when I flex my hands
They notice all the lines
Asking over again why so many
I tell them:
All the lines hold metaphors, rhymes and similes
Invisibly
Holding the weight of words
Every time I close them
But they don’t believe me
That my lungs stick to my ribcage
Because Language is oxygen
And there’s poetry growing in my bones
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