Our lives didn't wait for me to force them,
Into corners they'd never have known,
Or to transfer my wants and my tensions
Onto souls I'd already outgrown.

Yet to you this proved such a mystery,
and my motivations were wrongly gauged,
I had so many words I was wordless
in a silent war that we waged.
 
Now your memory to me is fleeting,
Calling faintly from those days behind.
Were it not for my boundless imagination,
You would have nothing of the substance I assigned.
 
So I shall leave you now as I found you,
Simple, imperfect, and naive.
Idle in the trappings of perfect circles,
Wrapped up in what all small minds believe.

This is a terrible poem I am disgusted that I wrote.