It
becomes religion the way we survive those mechanics changing our texture.
It
becomes life or deaths while consumed by both attempting to distress factors.
I
have angst and love and gravel and terror for you; something delicate into our
righteous rules while one pictures something delusional; to have made
infraction or to bury those infractions where one is weary of you; but riches
cover problems while memories preach insomuch as one is leery of acceptance;
those whetstone feelings those teary sessions while guts grip and floors seem
with promise.
We have plans for you,
some quite noble, where others are quite selfish. We devastate in ourselves. We
decide upon behaviors. And we determine what you will and will not succumb to;
it kills softly, our faces are contorted, plus, our hearts are hard to measure.
But life is strobe lights, plus, our daiquiris, plus, those recreational
screamers; if but to reside in pictures those perfect captions as it was so before
critical thought ensued. It was luxury, that goofy young mimic, those treasured
compliances; but days became apparent, routines lose flavor, where roses are
better fires.
You
will live but a deceptive reality for perception is often askew; it needs realignment,
and not from others, but more from this thirsty and hungry spirit.
To
dance while observant or to salute a few mentors while watching them closely;
to live by intuition, or to hone discernment, as becoming aware of certain
flaws: we desire something, in this zoo of wilder animals, while beauty
complicates our survival.
It
was those days as watching it manifest where one is at needs to know.
Flowers are appealing. Sentiments
are warm. But do life because you must and not passively. If it works out it is
perfect but otherwise you know deliberateness. Not by deception! But full
disclosure—where insistence came naturally. Those baffling moments those
seconds at seas if but to arrive at something greater in you.
By
reaching it shows something but it also distresses something where a letter or
two is not harmful: You must scrape skies; You must filter through
distractions; You must taste something in you; this landscape or those
dreamscapes while chasing and running where oceans meet. This fretting empire
those slipping memories to have mother so close; or realization as swift to distraught
or senses where black and white appears gray; this lifelong blending those
soul-berries or certain manifestations that alarm our better feelings.
