My thoughts are mine, but they don’t cost a dime to rhyme them.
My thoughts are spaghetti noodles jumbled up in a big bowl. Squishy, twirly, yucky, delightful noodles.
Because they’re mine. And I don’t have to give them to you at all. And you can’t make me dehydrate them neatly and put them into a cardboard box,
but I’ll do that for myself.
If you want you can come look at and hold them, but be careful not to break them. Because then they won’t be the same.