I see words as
Embossed white letters on a white piece of blank pages
They need a scrap at the surface to release their form of wisdom and beauty

And my words are
Series of mute tongue, dry throat
A thirst for attention
They make splendid stars whenever they were read and interpreted

But my words are
Invincible and destructive
Like the strands of hair on my hands that fall 
whenever I scratch 
whenever I think

My words are and cold rustic
Like the coffee beans on the bottom of my cup after thrice of free refill
It does not appeal

Like how difficult I start and close this poem


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