dear
Losing or Demented, how has life treated you? “It has broken concrete. It’s
dreaded reality. It sharpens by aggression.”
our
barricaded insanities to have come into it where the soul was expressed
tribalism. but freedom is aloof it rests in its psychiatry while one must abide
in
frigidity
or rough science or nickels or quarter-packs after weeds or stems such paranoid
stigmata. to give ammunition to speak those back-doors where even Jesus
was
shocked.
such
gut-passion or furniture fatigue at lower ottomans or higher settees if but to
believe as a man discounts his origins so sick so tentative if but the ruling
nation.
we
assess scruples where he lives as a nut, plus, drinking has fractured his
personality. to hear a conversation, or lean into self, while affected or
changed those sanctuaries as one enters the room or it’s obvious, you don’t fit
here. so much affection but feeling an outcast
while it deserves its academy. a believing nonbeliever a satiric shyness or oxymoronic
clarity. where one would pass you that. while pills are mystery. insomuch as
one is furious, he spoke so close to transparencies. the vexed author those
terrified gorillas while a man married a tiger shark. so unaffected come years. so tragic his
first response. where it isn’t deep enough!
laudable
efforts. pierced sensibilities. where we will never get along. this war I need.
where one is equipped. as I lose, I walk away smiling. this sociopath this
psychopath this normal evaluator. to have it categorized to know demarcations
or to show it to a given feature. that mistake in souls, as to see familiarity,
and plead for a friend. those tithes this curse where the preacher is filled
with his best interests. so emphatic for this independence while trust is so
chesslike.
a
sparkle in a scream a demon in
a
salad those mazes those eyes to
fret
in fear or to become a little
baby
while life is prenatal or
dear
protagonists, to pardon daily
the
friction in authority where
one
says, “I know for pain. I
give
rain. but he must apologize.”
damn!
I need to curse.
this
land of feelings by the truism, “My emotions are more important than others!”
but
over the tide near the frontal ocean or under the sunrays—those weaning spirits
this undercurrent war
while
mother resurrected.
it
was easy it came naturally it lives in our homes. but justice somewhere those few damned to politeness
where people feel so bleeping normal.
the vase just sits. it collects dust. we wash it during foggy dusky
caricatures.
our
tender thoughts. our wrung journals. while seeing it doesn’t mean sh*t!
