Give
affection, a son dejected, strutting through projects;
and
such distress, to pardon hell, if only to breathe. We
know
it well, an attitude of dung, seeking cotton candy.
It’s
him, it’s him: It’s always him.
Indeed for caution,
an
addict’s son, a break from normal, and much fatigue.
I
cried to hear it, a woman’s voice, screaming, "F his life."
Let’s
expose nature, a feud for love, a deep deceit. It’s more
deceit,
an addict’s need, a step for control. It’s quite
insane,
to mingle at lights, to piss-off love. I sparkle to
feel
it, a dying breed, bent on moving mountains. Something
tickles,
a thirst for war, to flip a humble man. So tithes are
paid,
prayers are paved, for picture perfect pain. What for
sons,
speeding through traffic, a touch of misguided anger?
It’s
so emphatic, to transfer angst, to F a brain; for “norms”
are
printed, aside for us, an affected flame. We elude to
embrace,
ever addicted, but now for moods. I want for
daylight,
where shadows beat drums, and mothers live asylums.
I
can’t forget, a tender vex: Life is
darkened, Love. I chew it,
torn
for dead, alive when God came.
