The Voice. 

 there is a quiver, a voice, a scratch on the back of my throat at all times

 that spins magical magnificent memories in the form of words i cannot live without. 

i call these wonderfully wierd impulses as my poetry. 

but be warned : we poets learn how to twist metaphors and pin imagery.

we make make diamond words out of coal memories.

we know how to bend and shake up words until they shiver and are nothing but dust. 

we paint gods out of human palettes.

and i will probably make one out of you too.