My muse is my own befuddled mind.
My goading is the respite from the daily grind
Confabulations, contorting the truth of my life,
to form a mosaic, a jigsaw puzzle
with loose parts to fit right.
I am not a good observer,
Eyes staring, reveling in daydreams
World see through, details conjured by me.
I am not a good listener,
Teller is my mirror, reflecting myself.
I do not empathize, they are my own agonies.
My grey cells do not focus well,
My attention wanders.
What is it that I seek?
Day long as I nuzzle and cradle my thoughts.
Am I narcissistic? Am I a liar?
Weaving and penning lies on paper,
As hearing my voice is a rarity,
not voluble, but indulge in soliloquy, as
words stare at me from enchanted ceiling.
In the midst of washing dishes,
in the midst of restless nights,
I need to take a flight, as I am compelled to write,
To touch the cold metal of my pen bleeding ink,
to bleed on paper what I think.
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