because you’ll know yourself, you’ll know me
an inverted introvert, and only try to satisfy–
cause you’d have to create me to satiate me,
please, my pretty paradox don’t pass me by,
for my life would only lead up to that moment,
when these words cease to be sent back to me.

you’ll know how to tackle and rustle leaves,
chuckle at half my crap, and soothe the other,
when to discuss metaphors, death, and eternity,
and keep my mind and matter grinding away, yet loved–
carrying me back to hearth to nuzzle with my heart
until intensifying my passions reap responsibility.