Take your hand from my mouth.

I have a voice.

I comes up from the ground.

Smoothly, sailing through the veins, just movement, not yet sound.

It travels and shakes, vibrating the core.

Up and out.

Loud and proud.

Deep and grounded.

It comes in speech.

It puts together words. One with another. Clear sentences piercing the silence, cutting through space.

Conversations, dialogue, speeches and proclamations.

It comes in laughter.

Tickling my insides and exploding through the air.

It comes in a whisper, a hushed promise.

It comes in questions. Inquiring, inspiring. Creating, crying, craving, clawing.

It comes in shouts. Sharp shields that defend the front.

My voice…it sighs. With exhilaration, sensation and alleviation. Slowly shifting, it rises and falls.

My voice is mine alone.

Don’t you mistake. I’m happy to share.

You can’t read my tone,

I speak from truth, speak from care.

You try to stifle, try to suffocate.

You should stop, listen and appreciate.

My voice is my own.

But I will lend the power.

To greatness prone,

A strength to never cower.

My voice is a mountain, breaking the horizon.

Great rock protruding from the earth with authority.

My voice is a river, flowing fast, flowing slow.

Power to be yielded and beauty behold.

My voice is the sky, limitless and clear.

A vast open space, things far and things near.

My voice is a beast, through the meadow is runs.

Muscle and bone, heaving forward head back towards the sun.

My voice is the beast, charging through blue.

The surface is near, water refreshes anew.

My voice is the bird, taking wind, taking flight.

Reaching higher and higher, with no string of a kite.

My voice it is blue, purple, yellow and red.

My voice is alive and will never be dead.

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One thought on “Take your hand from my mouth.

  1. Then speak with clarity and directness. Sharpen the knives and thrust at your target. Kill them with words, showing the corpse for all to see, your foot planted upon their silenced neck.

    Would that you were my intimate ally, a deathly lead to which I could lend a fatal chorus, mine the hardened whetstone singing upon the edge of your just blade. Tempered. Firm. True.

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