I talk as one that complains about windows,
too receptive to the day's award,
launching my eyes into strenuous migraines.
I move as one that runs across mills and factories,
too determined to stop for nature's rendition,
silent with the soul secrets of free murderers.
I rest as one that dreams the simplicities of a child,
too imposed on lovely mistakes to correct them,
thinking senselessly with credulous narrators.
I write as one that cannot hide their crafted core,
too real to even believe the truth is lighting itself,
watching years step forward and thoughts take image.
