My Mouth Is Not My Voice

My mouth is not my voice
but it's the flower of my song
fast being stomped to hell,
made into poison.

Broken teeth like promises,
like dark ragged rocks
waiting to make a wreck of me,
a ghost-ship and Sirens echo.

My mouth is not my voice
but it speaks of my abuse,
my fears of monsters
in the midnight
and monsters behind
dragon light and drill,
waiting to make a wreck of me,
a wraith of tone and crumbling bone.

Twice as many nerves make
my instrument what it is.
Twice.

Mouth small, yes,
deformed, yes,
and beaten in time like
Willie Nelson's sweet
Martin guitar.

It's not how you look,
it's how you play.
I've played almost 54 years
They don't understand,

I'm not ready to stop.
I'm not ready to stop.

My mouth is not my voice
but shredded flower of my song,
roots and bone rotten---
traitors or tortured or
tailored in genes---
all the same, I guess.

I want them gone---
Out damn teeth!
Out damn poison
slowly killing me!

My mouth is not my voice.
My mouth is not my voice.