I’ve been told

“your beautiful mind can’t be confined,”

and I have learned

that my mind had exceeded space

and time.

Like a broken pocket watch

that was left behind.

Paused

forgotten,

frozen in time.

This is why,

I can’t seem to be defined

by my thoughts,

or words,

let alone by my rhyme.

I dare you to listen in pain so sublime

as I pierce you with my words,

sour like a lime.

They’ve consumed me in time,

leaving me unable think,

rather,

imagine

my life without rhyme.

A life of defined

space,

no,

time.

I open my mind

to what I hope to find,

for what’s real

is something the eyes can’t see,

like rhyme,

you see,

it’s serene;

I live in it,

no,

it lives in me.

It’s the alter ego

that I wish to be.

Bleeding out the truth

that’s confined inside of me.

Released in my writing;

unfamiliar?

Off key?

The description of

my words,

my rhyme,

me.