What
makes us pleasant: vicarious screams, detrimental joy, or natural receptors?
I
become suspicious, this is legacy, while sadness becomes deceptive; we imagine
by gold, this deceased resurrection, where it couldn’t do that.
I have fettered behavior
while we all possess signals where some things remain airborne: mourning
cheetahs, jamesia jasmine or jasper undercurrents; to need concrete survival to
reach as an orphan or to linger like dinosaurs; our caved souls our gems
walking south or something too perfect to be our locality; ursinia daisies or
top-hat frustration to murmur about jerks; if prayer I need an answer if
abstracts let’s be cool or beauty so hermetic it must be mine; a soul with
passion, a daughter negotiating eternity, or mothers commiserating while
pained; after lightfast revival or rooftop Coronas to swim or laugh where we
must be nuts!
I read astrology
or studied signs looking for certainty. I read into human behaviors, but
nothing like this, where a person has no understanding for mutuality.
Most adore mother
or worship father (it’s amazing how distressed we are).
What
makes us pleasant: tender communication, healthy attraction, where we
miscommunicate the aberrant? To adore but need filth; to love by
self-determinates; or to study so intently we must forfeit the race.
It
needs its normality. It sings its understanding. It prevails by commonality.
And it dies its lusts.
I
watched a documentary where a Mormon family wrestled with boundaries; they were
easily seduced, while something was missing, but it shocked me to see such raw
susceptibility. I imagine a strong family—where it’s not an option, the nucleus
is impervious. But it seems a dream or a hassle while many of us keep leaping;
this faith in others this beauty made gold while souls are covered is clouds;
viola plants, rhinestone resistance, while time is such a sphinx; bright burgundy
buttons, elegant autonomy, while some things haunt the scientist
—soundness
adjusted by whims or seclusion becoming chains or too much world pursuing our
hearts; to gaze at a magazine or to reboot the hermit or at turtle pace and
becoming a nun; at monkish beliefs or canyon highs where it matters more to try
harder; an estranged father or an ecliptic mother while life becomes more those
colors; if but to give conscience-traits, our roots gripping our guts, where
one is able to outflank harmful cravings; but what for humans, and when does
one surrender, while we are distressed for happiness; it requires something, if
but willing to give, while remaining fifteen is an impossibility—
