I know the meaning of the words I write
What some give them seems so trite
My thoughts do roam around in my head
However my understanding is not dead

Are my words for someone I know
Or do they just go where they want to go
My mind may be one that becomes confuzzled
But for some others their reasoning I am befuddled

I cannot share my words in rhyme
Without facing anxieties time after time
Why do I not write poems with feelings
Because I am tired of questions and dealings

Gather from this that I am perfectly fine
I know what I know and I know what’s mine
Be on with the tiresome misinterpretations
Coincidences will only lead to creative constipations

Much Respect

Ronovan

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