I bleed poetry
Poe could only write about
And breathe wisdom
Erasmus could only speak of
I see patterns
Pascal could only calculate
And make connections
Sherlock Holmes could only
Wish he made them too
My thoughts are cold as the wind outside
And the chords strengthen a sense of despair
This is the time when I'm a cynic at best
Written thoughts on paper
Notes by an unstable muser
It doesn't matter
The glasses that should clarify are broken
And pages that I so desperately read
Are torn apart by contradiction
