I
reminisce on angers or frustrations—a man says so much he doesn’t reveal fruit.
such pain to understand, such emptiness to feel, while normality has an
assistant: palms filled with mud, hearts re-beating torpor, where a voice is
sure to plant a blanket. I see a face I taste a bathroom I hear something
bathing in its filth.
sheer
disappointment. as to give such solace. so wild in eyes so high in sweat as to
recriminate an eight-year-old child.
those
fields flaming those trees falling a man wakes up screaming. such a dismissive
tone wild like essence where he must be something callous.
if it hurts, we soon reveal it or it’s buried in a trunk. those chairs in our living room. those old-school lamps. or brown-white patterns. such fury as a rug might wince or floorboards rage in silence. a face hits a hand, a hand is grabbed, where a culprit becomes indignant! lightbulbs flicker in a moist room a subtle live-in scent; void of oxygen gasping for breath repulsed by her insistence—somewhere in his future to have met snakes while scraping his remains; so acute so sharp as aborted to death’s alley; suffused with survival, a dear pang, for most live, have mania, as never accused of numbness—in fact, most are seen as celebratory so pure while we ignore those rabbits he killed as a kid!
miles
walking or crystals dangling a fan hanging mid-sky. color wheels or innocence a
scoop of ice cream. we never see it until it’s there while we control merely
our responses. it comes by instincts or bird-wires or a scream to fly. as
bastard children so difficult to fathom where we live behind a huge truck.
trains roaring peace to listen or a fair glass of suffering. such righteous
anguish such religious malaise or one says, “There’s something to this
pattern.”
I met her it was usual friction it
wasn’t unique. (some pour out emotion some hold it in where others just
explode.) it amazes those realities proven normal while composure is held in
ill-repute. something is always wrong! no one escapes this dictum. where I
believe it, but I fathom why many have an issue with assessments.
I see our times our souls as I
wonder of why so many are so open. we go through nightmares we travel haunted
houses while compliant to something fractured.
we loathe wreckage. we live partly
unsung. as we put our hands to wreckage. it takes decades, if but to awaken a
harmonica, if but to align our hemispheres.
