In text I type my alluring hype in black on white,
more dark than light, more spark than fight.
A warmth at night hidden from ambiant plight.
This is who I am, sitting before the LCD,
When no one is watching and I can be as I please.
As I ease my Self from myself, sentimentally.
My fingers are the keys, the password prompt a lock,
And each successive strike sinks my Self with concrete blocks.
Myself, designed to feign the Mind.
A silver outline, the persona you'll find.
My standing profile to the physically blind.
Withdraw to creativity, this is what I'll let you see.
C-team, three steps from varsity,
Wash dishes at the Old Oak Tree,
CDs, TVs, the part that's Me.
My teams, My songs, My being.
My Self, predestined to genetics design.
Stumbling and stuttering and stilting this time.
Leveled to a pedistal I dont wish to ride.
Nervous and sweating, awkwardly shy.
Keep your tacit remarks by your side,
Just know there are places where I dont have to hide.
My canvas is blank when I bring my fingers to bare,
And the picture that I paint has but two colors to share.
And when you see my masterpiece weave circles out of squares,
That's when all is figured out, and few seem to care.