| Sometimes I question my ability to write, think, act, or do
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| Either way I just want to go back
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| To not thinking of you and moving on
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| Like a breeze that lifts a leaf off its tree
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| But who’s this me?
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| This mess of bones and blood that just won’t stop knocking on
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| The door of misery
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| Just to act all frustrated when he answers
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| Another poet party crasher, a mess of so much wasted breath and ugly mistakes
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| Only a footprint left on the dirt of the world
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| We all argue, «We're trying our best!»
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| In which case, how pathetic
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| Our greatest attempts must be against such trials
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| Indeed innumerable
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| But maybe I’m looking at it the wrong way
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| That this puzzl (if even a puzzle) is not mant to be solved
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| But instead observed
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| Like the fog driven ships from the docks or the autumn trees
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| As they undress in preparation for their slumber in icy beds
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| And how their scarves and waistcoats bat about in the breeze…
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| All quiet now
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| Silent, yet not seething
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| At once simple and deceiving
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| Because a reflection is a conception is not real
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| A shadow of a puppet on the walls of the mind
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| Take down the shade but don’t turn out the light
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| Undress, undress for me and bare your body
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| So the light and the shadows may hit just right
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| I wish to be contained in you
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| As we are contained and consumed in night
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| I’m only a cord of wood waiting to be spent in the blossoming light
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| That crawls into the cool air cutting through a fevered haze |