It
would be tragedy and spikes debasements and existence—to die as forfeiting
deaths while wrapped in cubic fires; this pain in some as it drives its
possession such eyes and crystals or so abandoned to something proving lustful
scars; so charmed to adore pain so at love like freezing fires to awaken and
recook something barely defrosting; our subtle complaints as to detour
excellence where one read it so closely something popped out; but Love is
riddle and Love is aggressive and Love is hung by father’s resilience; such
deep hate such wrenching hate for mother was quite saddened those nights; our
dearer performances our so dead to existence while second in line for retouched
deficiency.
I’m
speaking about guilty successes and I’m looking at pain as triumph and I’m
losing so much I have developed a problem; the vision was keen the torture was
sustained and the results became a dead woman haunting persistence; our dear to
heart frustration our ability to thwart futures or so much guilt and so sick
about beauty one is simultaneously gagging and vomiting—those chucks of
philosophies or those gods we adored or this tiny leprechaun dancing in vomit.
It
has become so intricate that it seeps into overt gestures and the more composed
the louder the fury; such enchanting rhythms or enchantress souls while we
write more for an audience than we represent those internal motions; it becomes
its prison those doors and bars those feelings of deep rooted assassination;
while a culprit sleeps just as peaceful as kittens or just as delivered as Job;
this feeling to sense one or this disaster to realize one while a theologian
must act a certain respect; indeed, he turns this way and that way and never
would he approach a crumbling cliff; so exhausted some days while pleased to
ponder a few people while I must admit—most pains come back with time; this
blur with life this blur with time while sensing something different in some
realities; those lines by Safiya or those boxes in brains or something Morrison
said; this participant at existence this cane field in our souls as most are
dearly connected to trauma. (I returned while unwanted and fed where sows play);
it seemed normal to some, this machine with thoughts, plus, he doesn’t acquit
me for ruining a part of his existence; but over-there in those diamonds as
reflected by the sun—this miracle perception while I have lost a certain
marigold where it is difficult to see pure beauty; this agitation, indeed, too
much existentialism, but much more, too much resistance; our days figuring our
lives or to hewn our perception while closer means absence; a radical claim a
guilty soul or one finding honey in vinegar.
Many
are at this war and I wonder if souls must in order to live in a world that
seldom congratulates us; it seems so alarming that a small percentage controls
so much where even women are a bit alarmed; those things we do those dreams we
shatter or those times sitting and looking flabbergasted; so close to one and
so realized in this but a bit unspoken or so forceful I must worry about
infidelity; this pain in winning, this rain in losing, while we prefer winning;
those lonely hallways or this pain we piano while one is serious about
redirecting the goodness in us. I reflect upon this powerful entity this face
of guilt to become wrapped and confused; by one at success and feeling disputed
while endless thoughts probe seeking solace; our trusts distressed, for so many
are suffering gravely, where, while I want to help, I’m too far in to fully
commit.
