it
seems different for us or such projection while many argue identically. the
hassle or hurdle or havoc of power. why do we crave more or love dearly in a
land so volatile? calibers trapped me. I was subjected to a paradigm. where I didn’t
quite measure. I dug in as something wild-like to spend time impressing
something imaginary; or something in me something striving where sentences
became crispy. but over a distance, far into mind-woods, deeper into a crevice,
a soul was merciful. (it would die in time or arise as agents where most tussle
those grim-reapers. such doorkeepers or pagan matches while it’s said we’d
worship quite anything. it belongs to studies while most sound redundant where
too many clichés have become our existence. but most are clear, with rites to
enact, while eager to unscrew stigmatisms.) it remains a game. where we see it,
but we act like it’s normal. (I feel unfiltered as such a theologian, where it
seems lonely while painful.) most create a life. it’s here where realities are
formed. where contradiction is too aggressive. (it’s here we live, die, or find
fault with life; for self is normal, a resounding board, where other realities
are abnormal. it seems simple, but we search for something ecumenical, while
individualized-static-perfections prevent such accomplishment.) as of late,
life has been much rumination, in its negative application. with a want to
curse, scream, or plainly point out why an argument isn’t a willow. mother
warned me of this. she spoke strongly: “It’s not right to make a person feel alienated/small.”
indeed. we chance our angels or we swim in skies or we jetpack into some
strange atmosphere. where birds are talkative or psychiatrists are sketching or
professors are at elocution; palming ladybugs or listening closely, for
butterflies are complaining: they offer such beauty, in a depraved world, while
it seems to work for but a time. (we say: it was me or it was you or it was us.
some pains are scars, they ruin goodness, where one doesn’t yo-yo as quickly.)
