Such
sentimental trenches such tender affliction to arise as a perceived monster; so
delicate in private or defensive in public realizing most often those chambers;
to have loved adoringly or to have died valiantly at something quite vivid;
those existential eyes those alienated undercurrents those taller difficulties;
so complete in deaths such riveting philosophic while becoming cynical; this
invisibility in this shallow pond where each is at something important; to need
certain realities while most are halfhearted where each person demands eternity.
We
palm fire or drip with arrogance as something protecting self-imagery; we meet
figures such small conversation to walk away dependent upon our insecurities;
we desire deference this yielding to titles and where it is absent we become
obscene; flowers mean so little, we merely glance at skies, while we notice
anything seeming independent; such creatures, such California mentalities,
while many haven’t earned our trust.
It
becomes irrelevant, for only others jump through hoops, and many treat kids
like borrowed objects: damn near another planet, eyes filled with chimneys, or
so liquefied it hurts.
Our reflectors palm lives—our
rearview depends upon self-deflection—while despite clear evidence we side with
comforts; these battlegrounds or one dying for goodness where reality is always
heavy; such religious habits such convenient choices or familial concrete; such
to ask an Asian woman, about this life of equality, compared to a Caucasian
woman; or an ex-slave looking for Promise in a world a bit dismissive; or a
struggling Filipino in this vast vessel dependent upon tomorrow looking the
same.
A
bit downward asking questions perceived as one that must show leniency; a world
we cherish or a therapist we admire or a psychiatrist we fuss with; where each
has a diary and everyone has a motive where pure defensiveness is a copout.
But
trust is an issue in a world using and offering pain where essence is trampled
underfoot; this island for humble men this strength by humility or a world having
little space for too much reflection; our decisions are quick, and we’ll figure
it out, as feet trek into blue wilderness.
We hope for utopia—if I give
my body to you—this is a pledge to cherish me.
We often sense
manipulation in an evolution of sensories while this has become labelled: if it
interferes with rudiments, if it shows resistance, then we give it a negative
connotation.
One
might hope for something open, while memories are selective, or one calls a
child in a soothing voice and then does something vicious.
