we
live it as tulips, this very short life, as sorting through issues; as soil to
grain, or soul to brain, or drugs to attitudes. she was once cool, to rekindle
addiction, a vulture to a child. I loved her so young, as filled with venom,
angered through childhood trauma. it couldn’t be real, a repeated cycle, when
it hurt so badly! we try for sights, the terror of mirrors, a mother as a
problem. the gown is muddy—the scent is liquor, the odor’s cocaine: that
instant tale, as remaining secret, to outrun an orphanage; where love’s
chaotic, an early number, even an institution. I blink a tear, for it chased
his life, for a number of decades; as to riddle words—that close to
breakthroughs, but held back. it’s more the research, to feign for healing, to
excavate every crevice; but whom this touch, the ink dripping pages, as to
change his life. I deal with self, as honest as addiction, a fool to his
trauma; where life is burgundy, as tales are purple, to suffer through inner
therapy; for this is us, a world of characters, as tortured as old memories; to
chant the fumes, for a vacant room, to run from scents. I loved her through
youth, where she once stated: You’ll hate
me one day! it’s called blackmail, to churn emotions, or even
self-prophecy. I never knew to see it, as beige as tornados, mulling over a
demon; to climb blankly, in need of models, as sober as, Theresa; but this is
life, a demon at the gates, close to a thousand years ahead. it isn’t fair,
this deep complex, to wrestle for wits; as torn asunder, a blanket as a friend,
an angel in the distance. we’re living traumas, affected deeply, courting this
Ghost; as father begs, a part of purgatory, to grace his mirror; where Mary
deigns, to soothe a scar, that far the dreams.
