I always carried that old book with me,
Recorded the glasses and stares like a travel journal,
Never knew the significance of it really;
It was just an instinct.
Nothing ever came within realization in time
For me to put down my pen for self analysis,
Letting the water run from the strawberry,
Down the length of my bare arm.
I tore apart the pieces of my muse song,
Told to look into flames and wipe out my mind,
But to be submissive in criticism.
Most little eerie, dubious of what he changed
Or didn't.
It became tedious that I rang in circles,
Rang the gong over centuries and high peaks,
A few milleniums ancient:
Jokes on the professors who graded me with red pens,
I'm still praised at open mikes,
Pretentious venues and glimmer amorous.
He didn't want some focus either,
Nor demanded a 'choose your own adventure' novel -
He was fine with my daydream escapades,
And utter syllabic rawness.