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I might not be accurate, precise, exact, and truthful, And cannot speak to you in a voice more amplified than what you hear now, To the rational thinkers, I’m able, skillful, thorough, and genuine, Exhibiting aptitude, capacity, efficiency, and power, Yet, the shallow minded opined that I’m facile, showy, cheap, and superficial. I wish to please the world, The anticipation painted the world in rainbows, But my bookish precision and poetic peculiarity wouldn’t let me… Especially this day that I’m faced with a certain frigid and deferential surprise, Conjuring up scenes of incredible beauty and terror, Maybe, I’m afraid the world is deeper than a bottomless pit. I wish to love again, And write for those with the hungriness of words, Healing those with the fathomless depths of suffering, And the ones fear held in a vice, But I have collapsed into a dreary and hysterical depression, fighting with my soul and the world without knowing how to win, Forgetting that I’m living to die when I’m dying to live, Therefore, let me embrace with ardor the prospect of serene leisure. You can now see the ton’s weight of resolve upon my muscles, No more threading on a labyrinth of obscure streets, And my soul now is full of fire and eagle-winged, Because I’m imbued with a vernal freshness, And immersed in secret schemes of quirk.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

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