They too were dubbed as morons during their harsh times
Reading the works of those who died
and risen from their commonality makes me
feel that i am
after all, an inferior if not a mediocre
clown juggling with my own kind of lousy choice of words
and priority of ideas,
i pause, i sigh, and has come to the brink of simply
perusing the tenets of chosen silence,
but i keep the faith, i am different, and i belong to my own age now
upon a style that they have not taken
upon a choice that is lighted by the torch of my own idiosyncrasies
i read some more, down to the last details, they too, were dubbed
as morons during their harsh times.
with this, i write another one, and since then
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