Places in my mind are open wide. You can wonder in and by. But a few
doors of my imagination are under lock and key. You can peak through
the key hole but all you'll see is darkness. Unknown to the long silk
grass and warm air behind that door. You'll never see the huge butterfly
and silver stars that line the icky black sky's above. You'll never lay eyes
upon those spray painted walls behind those flickering fly's of my love.
You'll never hear the crickets that chirp like the finest violins played by
their masters. Or find those oak crooked smiles of trees. But you may
ask me why there are locked doors, and i may just tell you why. And
behind you're wondering eyes you'll see that the real me has always been
under lock and key.
'
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