I
wrestle with it; this inner craving; this eager thirst. We die at times,
cleaving
to ideas, broken for shattered; but many soar, to feel in
fragments,
a living proverb. We need for outlets, a socket to plug
in
to, and not for lust this thought; but rather a charge, to explore
neurons,
to feel them shooting; for winds are harsh, to finger a mirror,
to
reach a soul. We die at times, to follow perfection, but somewhat
isolated.
It takes for minds, to run a palace, to mimic the Vatican. We
search
for more, a thousand for words, to channel for chi; else for
chaos,
an inner emptiness, to feign arrival; for this is perfect, to mirror
perfection,
where perfect strangles; but what for life, a torn reality, a
portrait
on a crown. We die at times, attempting to live, to carry
without
limits. It’s not for grey—this life; but parts of death, to be
justified
in laughter; where a naked moment, washes away years, to
apply
wholeness; and more for gestalt, to center a chair, and
communicate.
We learn to live, striving for essence, a tad bit blue;
and
more to Freud, to target neuroses, and favor for clarity; but what
for
sight, a horrible death, healing others. I look to Jung, to know for
shadows,
to unlock the elements. It shall break free, in small portions,
where
a person changes. I saw it in self, a sudden explosion, a
partial
stranger; but whom to know—the person there—peering into
eyes.
It’s a mirror, a shifting reality, a set of new traits. We must adjust,
and
perish for breath, to read for sciences.
