Those
inclusive years as building each other thereinto becoming an agent; partial
slavery or anti-inhumanity while cleaving to acceptance; running backroads or
hopping trains but funning over losing his life; such fair white flesh to
arrive into his mind where ethics were sacrificed for pleasures; this daughter
war those family disgusts at treasuries to have become an agent:
our ruined guts this
trickle of vomit our bubbly stomachs; those ganja years sincerely absent where
dung was passed off as a magnum opus.
To
delay feelings a man might go numb where onlookers are offended; it has become
a problem those mechanics while a touch anti-social; indeed, traits mean so
little, especially, to unsuspecting persons, where, in actuality, traits
should, and shall, account for a great deal; we see a method, in this vacuum of
tendencies, where three for a given group of points, identifies us.
Please read into it.
It
was bars plus tar plus feathers; it was hangman by chains plus intestines.
Our minds are evaporating—something
deep is agitated—where baser instincts take precedence; but hibiscus or soil,
but reaper or obedience, but family or freedom.
Those
resting stops where thoughts are clear but something desires more out of
existence; such felt whips while looking yonder to discount appearances; but a
vessel in this chasm but dreams affixed to failures or so high up reality is
suffocating emotion; such holy garments plus a talisman-sutra but days are
spent administering division; our minds shunning actuality, our guts numbing
acidities, or patience too difficult to sustain; such yelling frenzy such repayment
for love while morals register pain-points.
So, we preach to choirs we
stand naked we suffer our inheritance; a group in disarray, a powerful organic
beauty, but only a few are listening; a group faced by fears in a land pleasing
its economics while a few are intertwined; as a world discounts years or sees
pleasure while mutuality negotiates its terms; to evince to a man something
other than what he sees where it should seem impossible; our preachers
upchucking existence those feelings but charismatic where our writers are
fending for spotlights; our mind-prints upon our children while Little Jenny
needs individuality or something distinctly human.
