I often wonder why the passionate are viewed with construed faces and cocked heads.
Your misunderstanding will be my undoing.
But when my voice gets soft and my eyes grow weak and I whisper the only words I have left to speak,
I pray you hear my plead.
My clothes mislead and my words confuse,
but you see to me that's not what they do.
To me, they are my only source of release.
Tool to decrease the stress that has reached capacity.
Maybe more
but no less.
And while I confess that I am strong.
My heart is weak.
And heavy.
Pulling me deeper into constant firs of emotion confinement.
Finding symbolism in the simplistic and meaning in the un-purposed.
and I never claimed to be unashamed.
But if it's all the same my art shall remain unnamed and unrestrained
because restrictions never birthed genius.
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