we
cross roads the signs are posted the cul-de-sac is violent. chairs are sitting
on seas the ride is rocky those whales are sympathetic. it was dolphins or
octopus when we felt our earthquake. so hurt by orientation, a bit disgruntled,
our parents weren’t perfect by us. (around 10 we flew our coupes. strangers
made our destinies. we became untrustworthy adults.) so much desire such
flapping in our wings as occurrences become cement blocks. but Love is petite a
rare physique by hearts fiending her contagion; blankets upon clouds, wines
hanging from skies, or songbirds serenading. our pride or needs by which Love
fancied a child. pure confusion or too many liaisons while complicated by
ecstasies—such potent or rich stimulants, such altered consciousness, so much
to forget the assessment of women; by places so steep by dungeons inverted into
resentment or art expressed bodily: the cage we walked in to, those bars we
constructed, or such deep morose curtains. the chemical of its pain those Coronas
to flee or such barbiturates to mellow lowly.
a person goes
through trauma, it’s unrealized, until confronted by consensus. the person
becomes serious, stern, alienated, the image becomes hypervigilant—it’s
accompanied by sensitivities, the world seems contemptuous, feelings are agitated
with ease. behaviors seem impugned, but one doesn’t jettison them, instead, one
becomes more skilled at hiding puzzles. (something needs approval, so, it
creates an image, but it continues to crumble.) —for habits are feuding the
inner person has their customs while America’s ethos is stringent: it
doesn’t permit unruly acts, it condemns itself, where it’s quite miserable. but
it longs for its contempt it dies for its calibers insomuch as it wars with its
agenda: such musical stairs, four up, four down, while existence, its core, its
cradle, becomes manic-depressive. such a mixed message, where something needs
excitement, plus, a family, plus, variety. (a person becomes irrelevant, where
existence is galloping, while it seems to pity us): our indecision, or better,
our acts feuding with our wants, where a child is precocious.
emotions
become untidy, our universe becomes measurable, we might tend towards
bleakness. the dangers of vulnerability, the impatience of the vault-keeper, or
too naïve to ever piece the puzzle together. but summer was salacious as it
tickled our funny bones or so enthralled, those first few months, it seemed
appropriate to have a child. so much for one, where life is variety, to
suddenly select an unsuspecting soul. but branches were evident, our worlds
were connecting, the walls murmured, the mirrors needed negotiation. love was
expectant such varicolored passion while one with droves looks so sexy. to whom
do we praise, or who could untie us, in a world where behaviors are ubiquitous.
it was our twenties the furniture was chic our accountability belonged to us—our
training our interior angst such rhythms filled with stigmata; as hating
reception but adoring behavior, if but the attraction of every soul. to die
over anxieties to feel but numbly where despite disapproval our habits were
firm in their mire. but phantoms so resplendent by beauty so graceful &
free; our liberties our indoctrination where so much pain would repeat its
havoc: the curse of its rose those bold elevations where one seems so electric!
it was instinctual
those thoughts were my innocence while hurting one seemed accidental; its
response was cold its wavelength was callous, where if it prevailed one would
be unloved; such a catalyst for ruins but walking away is first option where
some will hold to something partly attached. the thief in the soul, the person
in their cocoon while unlatching one is to unvet self. too complicated for
adolescence or too touchy for silken robes while love looks like fleetingness;
as someone’s gambit, or better, a toy, to mesh bodies & quickly breakaway.