Reality and imagination are impossible to tell apart,
The difference between sweethearts and the truth:
From him, all I am begging for is mercy on my heart,
Not for any pity or for any feeling of ruth,
Nor for this feeling to be pulled out like a wisdom tooth.
Creativity keeps us from being mere digits,
Created by the machine and sold in a booth.
The inner child forever frivolously fidgets,
Connecting these ideas of love with bridges:
Underneath, he dives into the treacherous waters of captivity,
Disguised as protection from foreign spirits,
But instead to prohibit natural creativity.
But even the most alluring can lose imagination,
Because beauty is just a stone cold conception.