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What you will find when you go looking for yourself:

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You will not even discover the tangled fuzz that shrugs in shame on my carpet floor,
Because my hand enjoys twisting its fingers through those knots so much more,
Than you, some simplistic little being with too bland of a concept to admire,
So utterly pointless that makes the eager turn very, very tired.
Are you the metal wires around my notebook paper?
No, you are not in that silver scrape for,
You cannot even mend tape together
Will you find the strings on the blinds,
That pull, then let go,
And swing, in confusion
Of what it really knows?
Of course not! People pay money for those!
A millennium before God brought light?
No, too much of a wondrous insight.
Will you find December 35th?
No, no, no here it is,
This is
You:





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