You shake me to my core.

What words may convey,

 what they will to do,

 I'm unaware;

unknowing.

I'm to young on my journey to fully be articulate. 

to speak,

to write,

to sew my letters into sentence,

into scriptures and stories beyond the comprehension of readers,

with nooks and crannies,

with hidden meaning.

the lace around the wrist of my foe,

the whitened happiness of a curled lip,

The sentimental cry of loneliness,

the crooning lullaby of a mothered widow. . .

I am not of age to know the things that I know.

I, 

admittedly, 

am inappropriate. 

I'm not sorry.

But I am sorry.

Nevertheless, 

I guess to say,

I am inarticulate as of now,

even still.