On the Art of Defining

everything i write has to be poetic.

lyrical. the words have to say nothing and mean everything. the words have to take you somewhere else, take you anywhere but here and create the image of perfection.

except you see through it. see how i can hide behind phrases, camouflage with philosophy and incredibly syllabic words.

i’m hiding.

you found me.

i am not sure how to feel about it. i am supposed to be the one questioning, confusing, twisting into ethereal shapes too complex to be defined.

and you’re defining me. predicting me. scaring me, on a certain level.

to define me is to invoke fear, for i do not want to be explained in the words that sprout from my mind.


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