To wrestle with my mother tongue is like,

To grasp my roots and pull them from the ground,

For when I was lost it was them that found

Me, drowning, wasting away, so ghost-like,

With a final thread of health, one more strike,

It let me rise to my feet, a rebound,

A retry, a new chance, my mouth unbound,

I was a warrior, my tongue, sword-like,

What was once free-falling is now a chain,

A weight, keeping me from climbing this wall,

Forcing my thoughts down a track, in a thrall,

Though my mind is not a dog to retrain,

And I can’t bite the hand, I must refrain,

For even held back by the leash of this curse,

I remember that there is always worse.

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