Broken Windmills
By Neurosine
Neurotic, subconsciously, envision them hating, staring directly at me. Psychotic, I can't fly, or sense the fine lines, crossing, definitions of someone elses mind. Quixotic, I mark down, Naively, the score, asuming the eggs are all hatched, chasing after, many things, that simply don’t exist anymore. Exotic, quite strangely, Standing out , remembered, I shouldn’t complain, About the weird way I’ve made me. I can’t sedate me, What I seek is rarely, What I seem to find, If I had the presence of mind, To look for a moment at the lessons behind, And see, more than the abstract reflections, In a kaleidoscope on the surface water, of my profoundly imperfect mind. Written February 23rd, 2002 © on Feb 23 2002 04:04 AM PST, Neurosine 0 • 10
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"Neurotic, subconsciously,..."