I
couldn’t imagine such adversity; being so young and faced with such trauma. I
speak rarely of dualities; but there must exist a force—this deep affliction,
where hell is a reason to persevere. We utter the metaphysical, being of
sound-minds, but our fevers are covered in tares; where wheat is suffocated,
and daughters mourn, and sons sit in silence. It couldn’t be real this measure
of insanity: fixed in addictions; struggling for therapy; as challenged to
believe in oneself. I remember mother—this extra of a woman, that far from
healed; where hell was nurtured—for this need for evil, whereat, a child was
dying. I remember abuse, the silence of walls, where dysfunction was normal. It
had to be life, else for drama, to realize something’s askew. I’ve been stalking
the deepest regions, and trekking the steepest deserts, pleading for this
mindstate. The winters are war, this psychosomatic heartbeat, forever with
grief; by which for stars, this inner indigo, a man for playing pretends. It
couldn’t be real—these salient scars, to cause a psych to ponder; and what of
father, an absentee, fraught with ghosts and goblins; where absence was fatal,
for he opted for this wave, where I live compelled; as feeling discontent, this
structure of malevolence, as inherited from negligence; where pain is
ignorance, that kind from souls, to leave us at wit’s ends. I fathom anger,
that type of silence, as to erupt as unforeseen; so I caution thoughts that
closer to retreating as to realize that life is more than mere reactions. This
makes me odd, even weak, where a psych is staring for a gesture; and it’s so
ironic, where mother wanted obedience, and psychs desire anger. I can’t
foretell, the script of an overseer, or the value of a psych’s pen; but life is
motion, as more a product—of years dwelling dormant; or rather, this nightmare,
alive in its rhythm, where one becomes a maniac, or even a psychiatrist.
