I am not sure.

I may not have the words, you will find,
Each day of whisper, and each evening in quiet comfort,
You will see the words that bleed the page,
Only do,
And I am just the creature, the machine, that leaks them.

 I have felt the be,
The have, and the dance of words within my throat.
They flutter! they do! But such a different place,
Is the one they reside in before speech.

A stutter, my lips refused, I had found,
To release this to just any person before me!
Oh how my words knew who I was trying to paint with them!
And how they had refused!
So pleased am I now!