too
many angles or too much insistence while it becomes easy. those floors or those
cabinets or what I might do. so much in angst so little to persist while beauty
is gentle. my loins at feelings my soul unleashed my abandoned emotion. so
mawkish or defensive or sensing mixed directions; so fair or lovely at some
part of us. such business such an approach but does it live—that carefree,
idealistic, or cavalier ambassador? or those free-spirits where it shouldn’t
matter while we fight, argue or damn our conscienceness! it becomes illegible
those deeper calligraphies while asking for humanity. to have ownership, this despicable
notion, while one is too free to submit. it becomes its stressors its
linguistics its last entrée. such to imagine such closeness where it hurts to
ponder you. or to drift while near torn so much asunder. our battles so clear
our hearts so ambiguous while we argue against our patterns: our lust building
our minds unbuilding our disputes with tendencies. as souls the valleys or
falcons dear to spirit while an eagle keeps with one greeting—our casual
journey where it requires fierceness while one needs to surrender. the poet is
mad. the poet is sentimental. but what is insecurity? can it be conquered? or
must it exist, with someone I’d die with, where angels speak or predict or
whisper such sweet infamy?
