He was big, scary and black.
Yet he chose to stay off my back.
Because my back was big hairy and fat.
And it seems he was manodepressive.
He was tall, skinny and dark.
Yet he chose to stay away from my arch.
Since it consisted of words to him strange.
Thus my poetry I chose to not change.
So I still write in lines that confuse.
Though they to me are confined and of great use.
They let all the emotions I hide deep within.
Escape and gather on these sheets so thin.
And then when I might need them later.
I can return to my abstract works on paper.
And read them aloud as many times as I please.
Still avoiding all of my inmates with ease.
There is no force or power greater.
Than words that you write for your own.
Emotions, experience, creations.
Avid inspirations unknown.
There is no bigger source.
For this great power or force.
Than the shallow mist of your mind.
So don't leave this instance behind.
Keep it with you.
Intimate.
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