I
keep speaking to self, to utter, “The end of my page.”
The
margins are full; each line is colored with two
pencils;
and I’ve just begun; but I need another page,
with
an extended body, to skateboard a ramp.
We
war like puppets, to stare for puppeteers, and feign
control.
I’m
a bit clouded, sorting through billows, to see it and
disagree.
I love it in honesty, to love it in gray, a sip of
Folgers.
We war like puppets, to stare for puppeteers,
and
feign control. Was it mother, to ignite venom, and
court
revenge? Such are parallels, and private pains, to
chisel
at resilience. I ponder Rembrandt, a life of art,
and
never seen. Such as Kierkegaard, a bit unknown,
sipping
through a coma. Life is music, a war for every
symbol,
chasing fireworks. But enough for grace, a need
to
scribble, where grace reappears. We’re rhythms, to sand
perfection,
ashamed of living. So more for friction, a
subtle
disdain, for those that made it; else applause, and
social
smiles, clawing at fate.
It’s
less for love and more a search, peering into a riddle. If
he
complies, and needs to fawn, than lights are brilliant.
Indeed—to
say, “He hasn’t suffered enough.” Such art is
raw,
to meet with grit, a war for every sentence; for we
war
like puppets, to feel for puppeteers, and feign control.
I
keep speaking to self, to utter, “The end of my page.”
The
margins are full; each line is colored with two
pencils;
and I’ve just begun; but I need another page,
with
an extended body, to skateboard a ramp.
