"Poetry is not what's in front of you, it's what's inside of you"
Inside of me, there is another me Observing, as I act upon life's stage My mind is where he hangs his open cage To him that is the same as being free I keep him in touch with reality At times he claims to be some sort of sage At other times he doesn't act his age What's best, is that we never disagree But he is really not like me at all He's innocent with curiosity Where he is quiet, I am always loud To him the moon's a flying orange ball He does not see the ugliness I see He flies above it, on each passing cloud.
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