We write what we feel,
Which we know is true.
Not for anyone else,
But ourselves.

Our words are not limited,
To what we see and hear.
We believe in everything within,
The extents of imagination.

Lunatics we may be,
If that is what you feel.
But that does not stop us,
From projecting ourselves.

For truth is the one thing,
That we know and love.
Which runs in our blood,
And comes out in ink.

We percieve mother Nature,
As the expression of truth.
And being in love with her beauty,
Is our sacred duty.

We live ever in bliss,
Not caring for right or wrong.
Leaving the world to judge,
What is good or bad.
For we know one thing,
That we are ourselves.

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