Writer’s Tongue

I have a small mouth on the top of my lips,

A talker I would say...

Perhaps a mocking external mind

Tunneling all I can not express

By shouting at my thumb.

I own ears with enough wax to light a city,

Some sort of device I think?

Certainly for sounds of sorts...

Echoing from high, receiving

Signals I cannot detect.

Some days I reflect on words I have typed,

Puzzled as to who I am

And what I was.

The writer’s tongue is but a thumb, or Hands for those of old ( write however I just need some tongue and cheek).