Evocative of, but Only Moderately Neurdian-esque Disposition

Final poem about you.

You bestow your essence upon my need.
Tenderly caressing my desires,
Hastily digging your sword into quixotic hope. 

You are not a “you” at all to me.
Just a mere concept I entertain,
A dithering of reason aspiring inspiration.

You are the ink inside my pen.
Bleeding out onto words unwritten,
Smearing through lives you aren’t living.

You are a dream.
You are a dream and I,
I…I don’t sleep.

Eyes are open, mind’s awoken.
Too aware to fall victim to the sway of your despondency.

And so,
As you are You,
As I AM me,
We’ll see all that we see— independently.


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