I have sections inside and appeal outside expressed in unified color anathema to poetic gesture.

I know the language of stillness before I learn the language of steam. Heat teaches me urgency; I rise, I tremble, I cry. And when I am emptied, I return to silence, waiting to be filled again. What am I?

The person who makes it doesn’t need it. The person who buys it doesn’t use it. The person who uses it doesn’t know they’re using it. What is it?

Letters take their form, Words appear with gentle taps, A screen's poem born.

Straight to double to safety, I come in many shapes and containers. The higher the blade count drives the price to mount, beyond the value of the shave. A single sharp blade does more to forbid the immediate growth of your facial hair.