I rely on the fonts to flavor the content of my scrolls
But how do I know my poetic politics solve Pandora's box?
Am I leaking Ginger Gold, or am I the sound of a spittoon?
I lean on the temple of my mind's oracle to comfort another's hesitation, but my mind still linger's on the vessel of my own demise.
Cup of poetry isn't sip by the barista, yet made through coffee grinds and espresso machines.
The assassination of your caffeine addiction. Yet this poetry still wallows on the bridges of your lip.
Must I write like--- Who'm Shall thou' not taste, or can my amateur English activate the dopamine among your breath.