My Quiet Abode

It is but nigh morning as I retreat unwillingly from my quiet abode.
 
Life is beginning to explore,
Everything is illuminated in a beautiful, serene glow.
While none contest, I am hopeless to implore,
A question of what answer only I know.
 
Why must only I be a content prisoner
of what to most seems a mind so insecure,
to obsesses redemtion of imparement by means of repetitive lecture?
 
Must I also partake
in the freedoms of the open wake
in which for most lay simple interactions to make?
Oh why cannot I simply rake
my social needs away to avoid mistake?
 
My will is to be a hermit
In the only place my relaxation will permit
However, I cannot forsake my exterior commitment!
 
I design as does a crippled artist
crafting monumentous ideaologies yet to dismiss.
As set into display, my conversational partner cannot but miss
as they crumble apon the threshold of my abode's premesis.
Social-idealogical integration is naught but my crippled artist's nemisis!
This indefinately ensures social awkwardness as my abode's attempt for defensiveness.
 
As I display and organize my mind's masterpiece,
the awkward reciever of self expression misinterprets it with ease.
Must my abode's telephone shut off with so much as a sneeze?
I cannot comprehend how others can ignore distractions without buckeling at the knees!
Only when my abode is allowed to retreat into silence, beautiful as all the seas,
can the crippled artist assemble his tools of art with ease.
At long last can the artist freely paint with infinate colors to seize!
 
It is rather disconcerning to me
living in an abode of my own conceptual fantasy.
Nevertheless, the crippled artist screams silently!
Alas, for others misinterpret my art without empathy,
Percieved from my lack of social creativity
Based on my unusual thought process' viscosity.
 
Woe is to this biased reality
where thrice have we forms of communication legality.
The necessity of these laws must be dismissed for my art not to become a fatality,
as a result of ignorant assumptions of my abnormality!
 
And so I constantly ponder
amongst possible solutions to squander,
of how to exhibit my art to the interest of a responder.
 
The abode in which I reside
henceforth acts now as a timesafe, my art to hide.
Once I have finished the last brushstroke of my mind
the world will know I have not lied.
 
The future, I know will come to a fill.
This is when my masterpiece shall grow still.
Not only am I a crippled artist with unseen thrill,
But blind onto a complete picture until,
in my quiet abode, I connect puzzle pieces with such a finishing tool as a drill.
Philisophical ideaologies must be taken to such certainty, as flour is produced at a mill.
Nothing exists in my abode's windows until,
I can piece together the reason it doesn't rest on my windowsil.
 
If allowed by an audience for me to speak,
The language of my abode, however so meak,
seems out of the audience's ears to leak,
understandably dismissing the details of my philisophical speak.
The ideaologies of the weak,
are often overshadowed by the extrovert's mental physique.
 
Alas, for the crippled artist who does reside,
in my abode has only his own strange art to intellectually inscribe.
Sadly, few choose in my genre of art to subscribe.
This leaves only the crippled artist to cry,
in the private abode of my mind's eye.
 
However, one thing gets him along his day-
The hope that the world will finally understand itself in his way
of thinking through means for the artist to portray
artwork on a universal canvas which could relay
a general understanding into what he is trying to say,
which is unfortunatelly thus taken by society to weigh.
 
The impairment of the accursed abode's blindness,
allows freely such permissiveness,
as to endow to the artist a greater meaning for forgiveness,
into a dark cold world which dismisses linear thoughtfulness
through means of global linguistical selectiveness.
 
One cannot allow himself to be heard,
'lest he listens to the absurd.
Only then has he the right to concur,
with that which may sound ridiculous, expressed as only a word.
Missing just one word, the understanding of a sentence is greatly disturbed.
For how can one thoroughly describe a flock should he leave out one bird?