I
loved us, this casual affair, to announce a child. I was blank, to see
patterns, concerned with our brooks; to enchant Love, cheering this
instrumental, at vacancy to see your face. I think for grandmother, this first
instruction, as to harbor dark secretes; as plus, grandfather, to abandon
mischief, as this deep anomaly; of course, to parents, our mothers as machines,
pushing for something difficult. It had to live us, this fabulous melancholy,
as to ponder such craziness. I could but lie, as to claim enlove, but fiction
is temporary—at least for us; this drama of tears, that extensive hurt, where
territories blend with chaos. I write for freedoms, to jog for memories, to
point to something afflictive: this art of avoidance, those gentle fires, that
diatribe unto emotions; but it had to live, this frequent adventure, as to
associate traumas; where hell advances, to alter thoughts, while souls cleave
to something illusive; to see addiction, while holding through cries, this one
bent towards sacrifice. I thought to speak, peering at grandmothers, aware that
love is foreign: this christic slate, as boiling noodles, while appearing for
perfection; but more to us, streaming confusion, as filled with hatred. Is it
wealth, this tour of brains, to dismiss a world of pains? I ask for curious, to
see such this likeness, as if art was merely for our seed; this frantic
anguish, where tears are inverted, those opposites that attracted dearly. I
should but plead, as if wrong with us, as times morph into resentments; but
days are young, to await this sun, where this moon is a bit moonish. I laugh to
perish, this inner sickness, as prying for falls of grandeur; to think as
others, this son as me, where mother hast to forsaken love. It couldn’t be
real—this sexual escort, while condemning a theologian; but this is confusion,
this world of prayers, as to witness a hungry daughter; this vest of colors, as
wheels of motion, while friends stand alerted. I’m more for years, as seeking
this promise, while passions lure this grand piano; to sing of riches, as
pagan’s would cry, where music becomes this illusive memory. It couldn’t be
life, as filled with turmoil, a fleet of disgruntle lovers; to feature
innocence, where many have perished, to wonder of accountability; but this is
pain, to remember such alleys, as to announce an addict’s lot. I’ll go for
deeper, those tears as love, where bodies became one: that tragic hurt, alert
to madness, to feel as rebuilding; to give such courage, with eyes to flourish,
as to feel as a goddess. It comes this way, this addict as blind, as to finally
understand addicts. It wasn’t father, as too, it wasn’t mother—that joint of
sights, those lines of brains—that fever for ecstasy; but more this flavor, as
running from anguish, at midst this misguided advice; to see us dying, while
feeling emotions, this control that must desist. I’ll bring us near, as to
watch that leap, where dignities form as snails; this curious soul, as asking
for answers, where such must withstand a barrage; as time would expose, this
depth of furies, where mothers are forced to articulate fires.
