You are adolescent, and I am much more complex,

And you do not know how far an utterance gets

In my mind.  You give it fresh air, and it blooms without rest.

You tell me to take notes; you are on a sick sort of quest.

You want to sharpen my knowledge, and so I sharpen your knife,

Or your pitchfork, or whichever word the devil likes.

 

As much as you desire, we do not reach the other side,

For my whetstone cannot sharpen you to a relentless guise

So we can cross, but there I should not start gaining tenure.

You say I should get there, that it is time; however,

I truly live in bluffs and prairies with Him as my sender.

Your incompetency of my beliefs throws me off-center,

 

But I still take hold and let limbs keep on lying.

Tell me that I can be inhibited and naïve,

As the actress dances and my reaction: inferiority.

Yet I follow the company that I keep and accompany

Your experiments.

I should dash west,

Back to the prairies.

Where I can be unique and

Live for Him, instead of for he.