I’m at tears this love, a cherished mirror—at war the images; to see for deaths, this ecstasy of woes, offended by the riddle of graces. Its wrists to metal, this inner foreigner—observing life. We know for patience, that sickening feeling, unless to master that feeling: this present sadness, as to wander your nature, alive, but feeling queasy. It couldn’t be real, the sword of ignorance, as loved the rejection of knowledge. It’s merely by fancy, those things we like, as opposed to seeking reason. I’m chasing butterflies, zipping through airwaves, this zeal and zest; at high altitudes, clashing with forgiveness, while pushing this welt of wounds; as dry these years, put to sleep by color, to realize its baseness;—but ever a factor, this need for acceptance, while ostracized by cultures; to seek for havens, a novelty to some, a complete hell to others. We know for lightening, this sudden invention, reeking of a genuine feeling; weather of lights or darks, that texture is authentic, this something terrorizing airfields. If only by justice, this well by design, that conflict devastating nations; to meet hell’s contour, this dungeon by equations, the matrimony of deep resistance. I chopped an onion—and began to cry—and blamed the onion. It’s a sick report, this course of ignorance, as screaming at others our faults. Let rest inflict souls, unto gothic revelation, through which, that thing proper may exist; else, this fever, drifting through portals, a tale to a spider; while coyotes wink, destined to uproot pride, this mother with soreness. I can’t image, the thrills of being wrong, while others cheer for ignorance; as a metal given, this sickening drug, as to thank a friend with a solid knife. We die this way, at rhythms to live this way, as conditioned to think this way. It becomes a chase, while stranded some pit, staring upward at hissing; where times are evil, while days rattle, and cages prove dementia. We opt for love, as opposed to war, realizing the purpose of war; as hoping for more, than a high five, for something so intimate; but torn our thoughts, romanticizing life, where pleasures are things uncovered; as to maximize friendships, the source of this one thing, abandoned to frosting.
Monday, October 17, 2016
Softly
Our search is life, pure objectivity, as to win some hidden pleasure.
I’m at tears this love, a cherished mirror—at war the images; to see for deaths, this ecstasy of woes, offended by the riddle of graces. Its wrists to metal, this inner foreigner—observing life. We know for patience, that sickening feeling, unless to master that feeling: this present sadness, as to wander your nature, alive, but feeling queasy. It couldn’t be real, the sword of ignorance, as loved the rejection of knowledge. It’s merely by fancy, those things we like, as opposed to seeking reason. I’m chasing butterflies, zipping through airwaves, this zeal and zest; at high altitudes, clashing with forgiveness, while pushing this welt of wounds; as dry these years, put to sleep by color, to realize its baseness;—but ever a factor, this need for acceptance, while ostracized by cultures; to seek for havens, a novelty to some, a complete hell to others. We know for lightening, this sudden invention, reeking of a genuine feeling; weather of lights or darks, that texture is authentic, this something terrorizing airfields. If only by justice, this well by design, that conflict devastating nations; to meet hell’s contour, this dungeon by equations, the matrimony of deep resistance. I chopped an onion—and began to cry—and blamed the onion. It’s a sick report, this course of ignorance, as screaming at others our faults. Let rest inflict souls, unto gothic revelation, through which, that thing proper may exist; else, this fever, drifting through portals, a tale to a spider; while coyotes wink, destined to uproot pride, this mother with soreness. I can’t image, the thrills of being wrong, while others cheer for ignorance; as a metal given, this sickening drug, as to thank a friend with a solid knife. We die this way, at rhythms to live this way, as conditioned to think this way. It becomes a chase, while stranded some pit, staring upward at hissing; where times are evil, while days rattle, and cages prove dementia. We opt for love, as opposed to war, realizing the purpose of war; as hoping for more, than a high five, for something so intimate; but torn our thoughts, romanticizing life, where pleasures are things uncovered; as to maximize friendships, the source of this one thing, abandoned to frosting.
I’m at tears this love, a cherished mirror—at war the images; to see for deaths, this ecstasy of woes, offended by the riddle of graces. Its wrists to metal, this inner foreigner—observing life. We know for patience, that sickening feeling, unless to master that feeling: this present sadness, as to wander your nature, alive, but feeling queasy. It couldn’t be real, the sword of ignorance, as loved the rejection of knowledge. It’s merely by fancy, those things we like, as opposed to seeking reason. I’m chasing butterflies, zipping through airwaves, this zeal and zest; at high altitudes, clashing with forgiveness, while pushing this welt of wounds; as dry these years, put to sleep by color, to realize its baseness;—but ever a factor, this need for acceptance, while ostracized by cultures; to seek for havens, a novelty to some, a complete hell to others. We know for lightening, this sudden invention, reeking of a genuine feeling; weather of lights or darks, that texture is authentic, this something terrorizing airfields. If only by justice, this well by design, that conflict devastating nations; to meet hell’s contour, this dungeon by equations, the matrimony of deep resistance. I chopped an onion—and began to cry—and blamed the onion. It’s a sick report, this course of ignorance, as screaming at others our faults. Let rest inflict souls, unto gothic revelation, through which, that thing proper may exist; else, this fever, drifting through portals, a tale to a spider; while coyotes wink, destined to uproot pride, this mother with soreness. I can’t image, the thrills of being wrong, while others cheer for ignorance; as a metal given, this sickening drug, as to thank a friend with a solid knife. We die this way, at rhythms to live this way, as conditioned to think this way. It becomes a chase, while stranded some pit, staring upward at hissing; where times are evil, while days rattle, and cages prove dementia. We opt for love, as opposed to war, realizing the purpose of war; as hoping for more, than a high five, for something so intimate; but torn our thoughts, romanticizing life, where pleasures are things uncovered; as to maximize friendships, the source of this one thing, abandoned to frosting.
