Until our minds are parched parchment prepared and longing for education the greatest pen refuses to write anything.
So sure in our ineligible unreadable monologues, wearing thick band blindfolds swearing our self-righteous pages are full, they stay empty.
Perhaps they are full of ink made of air, disappearing as we make think we’re making significant contact, fooled, deceived, duped by ourselves.
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And this is the part where I talk about me, slipping in emotions about what I feel, playing the violin, fingertips on a harp, out of tune.
Who am I? What makes my emotional baggage special? Do I think my voice is significant?
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