I think as a lonely sky,
Hovering beyond the enormous Earth.

I feel as a misheard cry,
Overflowing in a non-existent barrel.

I sing as a car tire's screech,
Like a child wailing from drowning in a colossal sea.

I speak as a fork scratching a silver plate,
Followed by a bloodcurdling statement of hate.

I read as a lifeless flea— though with rhythm,
Having the ability to cease the wretched.

I write as a flowing, teal waterfall splashes the green waters,
Splashing and swashing until it fills up.

I interpret as my life's on the scorched line,
But without that accustomed hurry.

I write poems, and that's pretty evident;

It may sometimes be vaster than grief

But with all that established, I hope you all see—

These hidden notes that I consecutively bring.