we
balk by doors or steel edifices where we pelt out concerns. by a man that gave
or took something his love where one becomes hardened gumdrops. to have died so
young to have clung to words while disgrace is a storied fable. so calculated
so repeated where it becomes mental concrete.
—for
another to farewell or to pursue academia while preferred was that he croaked!
I don’t find comfort or dynasty or even a last name. where others take to
arrangements, or perpendicular activities, but sweet life a perfect mustang!
those ingredients those alphabets or angry or livid while nothing is
accountable.
I
enjoy a missive or a manuscript or to reveal a piece of self, long-distance;
nonetheless, it’s asinine to knit something no one agrees with. like it’s
deception to commit to one where respect is totally absent. we seem to look for
saviors, someone to rescue us, until something else comes along; nevertheless,
I’m a sour apple, a joyful, realistic, ground-rooted soul. so lost as composed.
so gray as insync. or so indebted, I can never pay it back. (for you: things
will mean something. flavor will become important. where facts will take
priority.) but let’s try a frame—where rumors are true—does this weaken a
possibility of having something normal?
—for
something is clear, if forgiveness for one, then, at some point, exoneration
for others. where this might be untrue. it might seem foggy. but “we only
forgive each other, or those we have something invested with”; by an animal a
telic field to force our minds to congratulate our actions!
such atmosphere
such dear deception while we have issues. we can’t hear it. it isn’t shaped
rightly. wolves don’t roam the city. (such sour screams or pelted loyalties
while, for most, loyalty means one is never accountable.) such sickness such
deep frets while most are disgusted with self-imagery. but a dead soul or pain
seeping into laughter while one is wailing & giggling. a part of movies a
tint to its brains while fathers are running frantically. so given to failure
so ripe for losing while most find existence in a child. but it matters little,
damage is permanent, where poets must create: to live as wraiths, to reknit a
future, or to drill something aflame.
