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Though Im hidden
I mirror myself in some measure
In the visible reality,
Under the thick pretext of
Holding habitual talks
About my interior lines.

My interior lines are intangible
Perhaps like everybody
I belong to the realm of
The mysterious;
And the lines,
Something like this poetic vision,
Mirrors my reality-
Of lie,
Of truth,
To anyone else otherwise.

Still, I feel.
Like many others,
Where an innate urge leads me
To say my say in a version of verse.

Or else,
In a pseudo form of self,
I lie?
Its too labyrinthine!
How can I freek out of myself -
Where in senses
I'm not quite aware of
What I'm not?


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The following comments are for "In a Fix..."
by Myth

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