I wish that I could write a poem expressing something new
And only then I could create what I have always wanted to
But I'm an artist forced to paint a face that I don't cherish.
All these irritating rhymes which give away frustration
And all the limits that have locked my soul
Into what we call the world
Will never let me be the god of my perfection.
All my life I sang and ran or curled
Upon the pieces of my limited existence.
Only when I finally acknowledged the triteness of my creation
I recognized my freedom insufficience.

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