The poet writes,
while resting his cheek in his palm:
Knowledge grows slowly like a wisdom tooth.
and I can't help but
smile and smirk,
how slyly and obliquely
he conceals certain things
that accompany its nurture.
Knowledge grows slowly,
behind all the spectacle
of the incisors,
in agonizing pain,
like a wisdom tooth.
Monsters, when granted voice
within literature, speak just.
They turn out more humane
than everyone else.
Monsters, when provided space
within life, spout venom.
They turn out more spiteful
than already thought.
Herein, therefore, lies the difference.
Books showcase spine
far stronger than humans,
put together.
Birds perform anting
without any shame,
in the open.
In different forms,
the same
relates to humans.
Literature is anting.
Love is anting.
Talking and listening, anting.
Reading, anting.
Like birds,
we wallow in there
to soar high, again.
The thing to remember, however,
is this: every body reeks of ache.
