I command their presence, like soldiers on a field.
Hoping that as my words march on, they will remain in order, structured, attentive.
Eventually, though, my thoughts meet my heart. My intentions, however masked, are revealed.
My verse is turned over like rolling down a hill, and my words disperse in disarray.
It is then that I am.
For I am least myself when I am trying to be me.
And my words are not pure when I am trying to set them free.
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