I was raised with issues—as they molded a household, while mother ran to pain; this furious man, this furious dream, fraught with liquor and cocaine. We wanted normal, this figment of thoughts, as raising hell against consensus: this thing of color, where men ruled, and wives bask in their glory—with little this face, while chasing phantoms, as told to behave. There’s little comfort—in this bias space, yielding in silence to Susan B. Anthony; but I’m soon to shift, as fleeing to home-base, a city of scoundrels puffing; while filled with violence—a seven year old witness, as frightened as a baby’s fall; to ask for dreams, where mother is dignified, and miles from inhaling smaze: this woe of souls; those catered sorrows; that question of personhood; as distraught deeply, flitting into chaos—the hinges given up the ghost; while persons perish, embraced in emptiness, with little that want for integrity.
[….]
I’m more a man, as to wrestle with demons, and fortified in raptures; this thing of souls, a man for terrors, drifting through retrospection; while giving forgiveness, if but to grow, hassled by low frequencies. It couldn’t be real, where it meant for nothing, as abandoned to hatred. I merely confessed, this thing of evils, to live as one deprived; where this is life, as one so smug—I had to reveal it; this torture of souls, if only to heal, while she continues to ruin lives; but more to wisdom, that fatal scar, for many refuse to take a lose: that terrible feeling—a wound to flesh, this casual hatred; where hell is livid, this place of minds, as cultured as aristocrats: that feeling of in-between; that notion of confusion; that highbrow feature; to meet with death, this casual dream, as returning home with fevers; that act of treason, that lying tongue, as bearing child. It couldn’t be real, this face of chills, as forced to cherish daily.
