Incisors and molars

Lately it feels as though i carry poetry between my teeth,
Like there are stanza's nestled between molars and pain,
Like the silver of my filling is filled with the scarlet of my naivety.

Lately it feels as though i carry poetry between my teeth.

I am not of those who are grammatically correct, how can I be when when the words seem to outrun the speed of my pen?
No, my pain does not rhyme; it does not fit neatly into stanza's and punctuation marks,
It does not wait for comma's and oxymoron's,
My pain is inelegant.. but it is mine.

It comes wrapped in an indian girls hair and squeezed into an asian sweat shop workers anguish,
It is borrowed, but it is mine.

They teach us to pretend, they do.
They teach us to smile, and bitch and laugh loudly.
When will they teach us the honour of tears?
When will they teach us the sanctity of honesty?
No. We are taught to smile.
So my pain runs to my room and hides.

Lately, without consent, it is as though my body offers sacrifices to my soul,
As though "they" have abandoned me and this faulty heart must choose.
As though I need not smile unless I am happy.
As though they will not judge.

Lately it feels as though my pain is running towards honesty.

So i know i am not poet; because these words seem to write themselves.

I write because I cannot scream.
I write because you cannot listen.