There’s
an inner phone, ever to ring, to feel a daughter. (What have we done?) It’s
quite easy to issue pain, to claim for injured, where a mirror screams. So more
to anguish, this sour soul, striving to break me; but life is flames, a type of
resilience, to carry a few principles; else to perish, a living seesaw, as low
as sewers. I know your name, as
shattered as morals, afraid he’ll see; where lies built a home, as churned as
batter, forever in fear. I imagine ulcers—a feeling of fallin’—the dregs of
screams. But more to life! There’s a young lady, wrestling with
forces, to witness a twofold nature.
Psychs do it well! They listen
for misprints—alive this venture, to search out inconsistencies. They watch for nuance, to channel
energies, to push the danger zone.
One learns through osmosis, to group a set of facts, to garner
conclusions. I say it less, to say it
more: Visit the inner Island; for this is wisdom, to churn through triumph, to
wash a palm in tears—ever to strike gold.
When faced with wrong, the hassle is tedious, a dying motif. Rarely is it (a cappella), a senseless
wound, where there’s two—but only one culprit. I often wonder, of another’s mirror, to
wonder of vocals; for such mirrors speak, unless for deaf, and then a
sociopath. The morning is quiet, to
chant up a mindstate, to realize—you know not! This frightens! To do through unknowing, to care for less,
to know and still puncture! This
frightens! It’s more the flowers, to
pierce a thought, painting in magenta; for something is living, a series of
wars, where one loses to gain—for silent triumphs. So we pardon pressure, to see in self, a
gifted variance; but this is angst, to travel a process, to wrestle through woes.
(It’s most unlikely, with such a heart,
to see for mercy, even upon self.)
