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This poem involves impurities, insecurities, and other obscurities . . . .

Painter Among the Blind

People tell me you're drunk on freedom
You're like a painter among the blind
When I remember how you used to bleed 'em
And they'd be following you behind
You had a block up on your shoulder
They used to think it was solid gold lined
And now they see that you just grew older
But I can see that your gold's unmined

You're on a lonely cold safari
So far away from home it gets strange
I want to tell you that can all change
If what you know can't hurt you, then carry the weight on down
You think it's a cross, but it's just your loss that you feel now

And I can tell that you're so uncertain
You want to question your own poor brain
How so much hatred could come from hurting
And so much happiness come from pain
And like a hydrogen bomb exploding
You come upon undefended friends
To keep your circuits from overloading
They try to pick up the odds and ends

You want to march to a different drummer
It's so much trouble just to find the one
And when you think that you got his number
You find he's not playing for fun
And so he shatters your sense of justice
And you batter at his sense of time
Until you both beat down your illusions
Or else you both commit emotional crime

Commentary:

I think this poem was just an exercise in rhyming and I was trying to be obscure like Wordsworth in order to give the appearance of being deep. I really have no idea what this thing is supposed to be about, but hey - if Wordsworth can do it, I can do it and it's my historical/hysterical web site, isn't it?


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