Can
you help me; a blind fool, spinning through weblocks? I’m something
stubborn,
to read it, and apply tactics. I’m more for honest, to lie for device,
a
moment of closure; and soon return, to boiling waves, a grave of live
hearts.
Can you help me, to dig a path, to cause for clear? Was it thwart, a
young
genius, to fathom not? I skip a brain, to probe a teacher, alive a
slant.
We have it, a need to feel, to praise the trauma. I must confess: I
wouldn’t
change it: a life for mine; for mother dug—to sculpt a tear, to push
for
prose. I love her more, something to core, a spiritual war. How to love it,
a
vest of scars, to search for clear? We must to see, the growth of strain,
painted
in a psyche; and more the vicious, to give beyond, the deepest value.
I
said in haste, afraid to lie, to cut a soul; but more for truth, a rounded
myth,
to
bend tornados. I have for child, to live a life, a torn addiction; and know
for
not, the full extent, to cater to a soul. It’s much to fawn, to live
attentively,
to
please an addict. I read the book, for angry as hell, to see my life. I mourn
a
child, to love a child, wild with disdain; and not to change, to meet a
stranger,
fawning
and attentive; and what to give, for grounded in, a cougar to a bear.
The
war is death, in several facets, peering and dying; for mother’s hurt,
and
father’s brick, a sea of sickness. Can you help, a blind fool, lost in words?
