Backdrop's Blind

It’s there, it’s somewhere inside this head of mine. I just can’t tear it out without ripping out the roots. I’ve always got so much to say, but I’m never able to just dump my soul’s contents on the table like that; it always has to be basted in some sort of situational sauce that keeps me comfortable. That’s one reason why I like to write these stupid poems. They get it off my chest, they’re crammed with my own personal expression and meaning that only I can know. It’s like a parable that’s never really meant to be understood except by the producer.

Background’s tinkle, backdrop’s blind
Overcast sighs and tears in your eyes
Gist of a chronicle too young to be told
Furrows too thin, but lines are yet old.
Perhaps time appreciates a modest disruption
Ardor’s incentive to finish its junction.