This,
Is Beethoven.
I love his red scarf.
He is always so angry,
Why?
If you knew,
You would understand?
Ah off topic again,
Anger intrigues me is all.
What can be said about this man,
He makes music.
That is all he would say.
What fine music.
Fine.
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Liquid
It falls
Devine
A glow in my chest
It exists on rooftops, sequestered away
On my hand
How wonderful
A product of the mind
Surely
Stealing away in lost glances with the moon
This is not about you
Nor any person
Not romantic
This is about liquid
Described as
“Wine dark”
Some truth is there
Seems so silly now,
But they didn’t have descriptions for such things as water
I think wine dark is apt
Too apt
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Do you love?
You say you do,
Always,
And I believe it.
Do I love?
I don’t know.
I have selfish thoughts of only myself,
I try to push them away,
I know they’re bad,
They only breed hate,
Not of anyone else.
No.
Only of me,
Such advantages come with being me.
I can memorize anything I need to,
I’m great at learning,
Music flows through me, not of natural skill, but of the obsession that flows through my body.
A physical malady.
Yet,
I cannot tell my family I love them,
I do.
Making eye contact with people I care about is painful.
I don’t know what is right, and what is wrong.
Are my thoughts normal,
The ones that breed in daylight, and in blackness,
Or are they a product of my,
Condition.
Then again,
Do I have another condition?
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