I
broke a vessel, as to outrun time, our deserts but fantasies; to open doors,
waking invisibility, this captive by dreams; afflicted by years, as never to
redeem, filtering obtuse actions: that ghost to brains, those images as
introjects, that casual disdain—as internal clocks, our brains on repeat, that
kitchen by pork chops: adrift as born; this shifty legacy; our screams muffled
by mother. We sung freedom, afflux a harpoon, believing in freedom: those cold
utensils; that indebted freedom; those years at deposits—to incur madness, this
wretched cycle, to reminisce those former days. It comes by terror, to love as
unseen, this sun to flicker noon hours—while whales churn, so simple that
agony, racing by escapes our seas: that wet feeling; that salty discharge;
those beige tulips—where joys tumble, followed that sudden second, by caresses
those lines to yoga. We colored fancies; a psych perused; our folders thrust by
perceptions; that infallible ark, careful by virtue—those indelible imprints—to
die concerns, a leaf to a rabbit—grass to a poodle: if be it this life,
picturing Legos, or a tier of blocks; that frantic angst, to do as appropriate,
to garner approval; as living that way, our mirrors that lie, if but to extract
that terrible lie. I skinned a plum, at furry that queen, to realize they
wouldn’t care; for love so wretched, as shared with myriads, while to profess
that energy: (It’s not for pains, where honesty dwells, that unfortunate
tragedy; but ore to sorrows, where images are sold, by insidious souls: that
horrible faceprint; that fabulous sky-tear; where measures are molded for
freedoms. It comes by tragedy; that need for certain privileges; while truths
become a reason to alienate; so more to lies, as worlds unravel, while one
stands in stillness that donkey). I’m losing texture, this flexible weed, as
tender that holiness—to break by essence,
those charming winds, a bit for bitter as disgruntle; so more to lying
while becoming numb, fleeing from person to person—that pleaded forgiveness, in
every situation, that recurring dialogue; or more to freedoms, to exclaim as
freedoms, enduring that touch of alienation; as respecting life, while
affording freedoms, while one’s soul remains at liberties: that lonely space or
that treacherous outcome, while ostracizing accountability. I’ve sung a song,
fleeing for flitting, while floating aloft an ideal: that naïve nature, where
humans are freedoms, divested of consequences: this place of lies, for actions
strike at causes, while feeling a touch of mud. We thought it beauty, as oh so
gorgeous—that feeling of inadequacies; to give freely, that inner disdain,
while afflicting flesh: that tragic excuse; that disloyal spin—entrusted by
something remarkable; as living that life, as cold as glaciers, while yearning
for warm waters; this thing of forgiveness, for something treacherous, this
recurring theme. I’m lost a fantasy, trekking a sea-wavering-desert, at
forgiveness this blighted mirror; as discolored, flipping through dolor, a poet
by door-prints: that chandelier; that mahogany carpet; our racist environments;
as claiming healthy, that pyre of souls, where a child of color dwells. I’m at
tears, embedded in laughter, to imagine this horrid design; as speaking of
dreams, to culture our young, while souls are blighted by inferiority; as
knowing our places, affected by soulprints, a life of feeling small. It became
a myth, this racist soul, to adore this thing she loathes: our bleeding
trestles; those inner cravings; that touch of anything but color—where souls
are textured, fawning for riches, while constructing a negative self-portrait;
but never father, for father’s sick, as sick as truths; that cryptic arc,
racing through dimensions, held accountable for poorness: this deep infection,
where souls scurry, while richness dictates our inner cinemas: that morbid
outlook; that legacy a mirage; this feeling to eradicate those perfected
errors: to see us running, at wheels our hells, to that very thing our parents
loathe. It takes for measures, this charted island, to witness to something
askew: where loneliness speaks, this welkin philosophy, as opposed to dying
alone. I must retreat, while pointing to dysfunction, where hell has unraveled
our castles.
