each note digging
burying itself within me
i look around and see desolation
mixed with a pinch of desperation
and a dash of exasperation
masks dont hide who i am
they portray who i am
I'm simply remarking on the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.
but all of these things
cannot begin to understand
nor do they seem to want to
happily perplexed by their own existence
they dwell in isolation
never understandin, never wanting to.
a lack of understanding seems like an excuse
as to why lonely nights give birth
to lonely writers
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