Nothing makes it out.

The words die as
they slip by my tongue
to the outside of my lips.
Nothing makes it out.

My mouth moves-
ready to mold each
non-existent word
with each exhale.

The words are weak-
too foolish, too ripe,
their purpose dying
before seeing the light.

Effort is futile.
The heart ceases itself
from mourning the unexpressed.
It has grown weary- dead.

It all stops
as nothing makes it out.

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