I
would much depression, and still hassling, those furnace flowers; such convenience
as knowing one’s destination while embedded in one temperament; to think
variety as crazy as so much assortment where chemistry is acting normally; but
a low creature flipping channels while looking for his face; mnemonic
frustration or aristocratic grandiosity or hard on self for most aren’t
receiving pain; this animosity with life or this burning fever while bile drug
light to deaths; at semi-religiosity or something God-centered where many are
about Namaste—this core-war those natural instincts while many are about
their discomforts; this behavior so keen, as to stop motion, while one is
deciphering through sudden shock; but life is joyous or happy until those
encounters; either alienated or so into life while depression is but an
element; but to know about persons as unable to move or sit stillness plus
wearied to shower; those holiday seasons our holiness waning our clocks ticking
so loudly; our itchy fragments those rustic meadows at something requiring
determination—as sung to spirits or advertised to Jesus or otherwise some
remote goddess; to die in this feeling or to arise in this emotion where there
is need for chemicals.
I
have loved invisibility arising in our mornings while speaking total animation;
a certain type of soul at a certain type of music while a bit depressed about
functionality; those jest we throw those feelings we disguise so close to
gnawing through mirrors; to die in this this arrival but glorious while people
are wondering about philosophic views; to sense many angles or to dance by
triangles one senses a need to shift perspectives; such language for one
grappling such dynasties for one losing while his countenance belies his state
of affairs; as something independent, it screams about radiance, where most are
angry to see it; it becomes astounding, for others possess grandiosity, where
they hassle not to restrict it; those bias canals this florid river while two
have become but imitation; this mimesis empire, those sweeter charms,
where many sense something beyond space and time; our ruined selves as ruined
creatures, so voiced and so silent; such rich depression as it inverts where
one is too steep to vanish.
I
called it love but it was objectification while never a belly so thin; we ran
our meadows and shivered our hearts where beauty was crosswise; our aesthetic
flag our allegiance to depression so pure and powerful and prideful; while
never so rich, to have possessed something perfect, where one is forced to
adjust; but adored for resilience or praised for combat while at love remembering
a baby’s arrival; this furious fever, as never an absent moment, while Anxiety
was eager to heal; those swarming mayflies those swamp-ponds where grassy
debris is unfathomable; such realized tendentiousness such shallow requirements
while it was then that love was depressed—as more in life or vacuumed sincerely
where it couldn’t be both; not unfulfillment plus infidelity, not grandiosity
and no reasoning, or a parted soul needing infinity; but habits they become
dissertations so engrained in personality; to desire a pure home but unable to
break self where plurality seems too appealing; our murky depression our cursed
ambiance while screaming and demanding apologetically; our haven hells our
heaven mudslide as one so determined to recapture those old emotions; to find a
sickness, where rationality is divorced, but attraction reasons beyond its
incapacities.
