Confucius may have said a lot but he never said what I could not
suppose he found the narration would not translate
and in this state of mind over no matter
I wonder what is the matter with me
I can see
things that are not there and if I write about these things
I swear people think
I'm blowing bubbles in the air
but they can't pop them
can't stop them
I put my thinking where I want and is it not fairthat I should
could a minstrel shoulder less a burden?
in my garden everything's rosio
sing me a song and
I'll be your romeo.

Confucius confuses me with someone I used to be
and whatever he says
makes no difference I see
what I see
and if words could convey this disarray
I'd write them all day
but they don't so I won't
but who am I to decide that you out there should be denied
of my talented pen?
(me big headed..when?)
so I'll keep on showing you the slowing of what I do and in the inks you'll find links
to the something not there.

Does that man that he was and he was such a man
care about what I can do?
Confucius say
and whatever it was got lost in translation.