I suppose my problem now is a build with no outlet
No sympathetic ear upon which to confide
Thus the pressure builds within to reach a critical point
The pressure of ideas held inside
I contemplate things in a manner unending
I hammer at that which is unyielding, unbending
I mold and I form possibilities into scale
And enact that which will surely fail
So my only recourse with this buildup of thought
Is to gather and gather, and examine what’s caught
And refine what I want into a matter expressed
And give them to you in the form I deem best
And with the rejects, the fragments, the failure
I am still enraptured with their iridescent allure
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