To
watch for safety—that far gone, gnawing at a net; to sight appearance, for a
mirror spoke—the tides of self-loathing; where tears broke muddy, knees to
soil, pleading a petal. He’s bottled up, to escape in fragments, to return to
feelings; in which was mercy, for an inner rebel, pitching for a cause; to find
through streams, this song for humans, to wrestle depression. Something is
growling,
this inward man, the company of sources—where terms are challenged, to venture
a psyche, to return to a feeling; so therapy is validated, to perish in
segments, to get in touch with a deeper self—despite the anguish, a process
searching for clarity, to see more for muddy tears. Something is found, to
feature an appetite, where self is uneasy; for there’s an edge, knitted to
trauma,
to wonder of innocence; to see for broken, a fleet of decisions, searching for
a fixture; that somebody—to right the wrongs, to tug us out of the muddy sea;
such delusion, where one merely walks—a vessel to a pond. He’s filtering
addictions, climbing gradually, peering at a mirror—to see it speak, the
secrets of eternity, to know but a feeling; where he sees the force,
deep
in another, to wonder of intentions; plus aloof, plus for different, to
struggle with control. He scratches reality, to sit the discomfort—the years to
churn souls; to need a voice, a meeting of minds, something that soars the
depth; that sentence, which parts the chaos, to grant for comfort; else to
perish, a daily carousel—to grip a cigar, plus the grapes. There’s a miracle,
close to an
