Her vision of me is askew,
As her seemingly pure sky eyes
Believe they see through me.
It imparts to me a melancholic cloud
that I evaporate daily.
She produces this cloud
For reasons that prove needless.
This cloud that doesn't belong, has emerged the wisdom
In knowing it is potently wrong.
The language of her eyes possess no shred of veil.
Although I want to avoid it, I dread,
At times, Our eyes must meet.
Her voice may speak, yet her eyes are amplified.
Why must I see these subtle vibes emerging through eyes as
Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions that attempt to falter
My sound skied clarity of mind?
No longer shall I pay an y amount of my attentive energies to
Her mistaken image of me.
Nor will I try to prove how thoroughly faulted it is.
For if I did, I would continue to allow it to grow, thus live.
I no longer nurture
Foolish seeds of foul fruits that taste laced
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