Nervousness

I’m so antsy, bought by illness, occasioned as a fool—to relate a name, at patience to retreat, while created a loop-web—that blue grass, those chiseled feelings, as introverted a mansion; this livid crisis, to flourish a thump, as energy resounds—that Buddhist notion, those Hindu gods, our monotheism—as swarms a yogi, a fleet of inputs, our datas clashing with human chemistry. I’m so antsy, at feral fantasies, at furious women—that cold shiver, to invert as warmness, this game of reviving sanity—as swimming atmosphere, to bend air-waves, dying for living to finally touch—that mental music, as revealed in temperaments, this genius a teddy-bear for love—as moving crookedly, to reckon such hands, afforded this curse of beauty—as age creeps, slamming our virtues, but a drink to atlas our movie—where mothers perish, as sawn asunder to meet a charming vexation: that cordial art; that wild emission; our pictures becoming vices: that achy portrait; those fiery arms; that length by kef as drowning—where mercy unravels, this Siamese twin, too famish to settle for minutes—as died inclination, this vulnerable feeling, at eyes with intentions—to tug by brains, as retrieving senses, at once, to devastate that loner’s seduction. I’m so antsy, tripping over words, becoming something familiar—as biblic cadence, reversed in color, such passion for eyes he never noticed; that contradiction, as seeing his brains, as opposed to sensing miseries—or passion by joys, revolving around one person, at curses to become a difficult candidate. I’m so antsy, typing for falling, as calling somewhere those inversions—that burgundy sweater, those turquoise jeans, those open toed sandals—adorned in painted toes, as pedicured a miracle, at tremors to sense attraction…this casual hell, as believing in tapestries, our pleats athirst and gasping for flame…that achy nightmare, as never to possess, this entity I must control; that deep secret, as men perish, while women soar a galaxy—to haunt his heart, those nightly pains, to give by temperament that inverted ache—those tides as mellowing, as one shoots a volt, while knees shatter floorboards. I’m so antsy, that nethermost region, to touch by womb and cry—for dyeing his mind, to purloin a feeling, as occasioned a vampire—this passionate other-tense, to reft his soul, at mirrors pointing at perfections—that woman’s wildness, that woman’s shyness, that palm to cheeks adoring our gaze; that amazing time, as floored a genius, to rue so much that summer-fall—this man at tenses, while peering at luxuries, to hit a cave snagging but every jewel: if but to live, an unsated woman, or a baseborn man—as more to dying, a furious dream, as loved our souls, abased for mercy and screaming—where skin becomes blood, as scratching eczema, to picture a sculpted Madonna. I’m so antsy, plus, a frustrated soul, at love he couldn’t win—as ever before, and ever again, or more to silent rivers—that fall to justice, to cherish but an ocean, at fevers carrying his pride—where Selene chances, at feeling infinity, but never for fleeing by hours—our sore return, as to wonder of motion, where every motive is clutching for streams—that beauty youth, as infatuated dearly, our lines becoming harbingers—but never those eyes, as sensing perfection, to touch by aches pursuing moreness—that inner somethingness, as mental fire-webs, to assault a future that feral fling. I’m feeling antsy, to have lost that volt, while we suffer our restraints—as painting pictures, aloof to terrors, while engulfed in our realities: that gorgeous child, that brainy kite, those Legos boxed in a haunted closet—as born to feel, where feelings are contained, while, nevertheless, Logos cleaves to its very likeness: our lavish passions, as laved in emotions, while engraved upon a ceiling fan; that pure rotation, as shifting our arcs, to remember it felt ecstatic.