I try to see you as ransom determines while pieces are inflamed; so much a tendency or so much reluctance while no one appears responsible. the heights are flowered so decorated by indecent excuses. souls are abandoned. most feel lonely. while culprits have something perfect: the right answer, the well thought out response, where the image looks perfect, or screams, “It couldn’t be my fault!” some dream. no one is listening. no one is subscribing to the perfect existence. the doctor is affected, by damages inhaled, while reality is universal. I may have formulas. I may dance with eagerness. while it hits the household. a man must be dizzy something too passive as to be attached to a certain woman. where it becomes normal, everything that aches, where a man learns to hate his life. but Love is happy, looking at a miserable man, as long as he doesn’t leave.
I asked a question, I knew the correct response, but it didn’t paint that way.
we have suspensions concerning mentalities—we have labels; indeed, pathologies are universal, no one is even, while this becomes popular. such taboo, such stigmata, while essence is grieving.
such boundaries to inquiries such raw denial or such a different quintessence. a man will listen, he will make a decision, or even claim Hosea’s wife. a pain will hit, deep disappointment, as it settles into his rationality. such wonder of pure evilness as asking, “What have I done wrong?”
so reluctant to call it by its name. so attuned it feels like super-consciousness. so determined to avoid certain definitions. they do something as to alarm us while they punish us for candid honesty. one learns as not to trust them—while someone is saying something is by debate. (a person without training determines what happens where a doctor then prescribes a dozen pills.) I feel concerned, as knowing it’s this easy, where a difficult child is drugged for mother’s sake.
you stand strong the winds are respectful or you possess its gift. many will trespass they will see excellence deciding to authenticate it, for many need to vet, albeit, unqualified, where it becomes a disgust for us. to hate a person to dislike one’s ability, as unquestioned by self—so many behaviors. it becomes a game. where buttons are pushed. just for the purpose of writing one’s ills. I create a scenario I deduce a conclusion, where it must be real. (we must ask of a serious dilemma, “How have we depended upon answers we created situationally?”) but a complainer or a container where he must acclimate to creative motivation.
I saw her phone while miles away, I became concerned. something is ringing, it stands aside a shadow, it lives in the penumbra. a dark spot in a darker spot, while we claim light.
the skies are looming the waters are gloomy the defamation is radiant; some measure we have a game by different rules — “Why doesn’t he look like me?”
the
days are long the song is unheard as no one quite cares. we need intimacy if
but for a capture while one left shortly after. the same agony the pit so
desolate, the desert so destitute. it requires a soul while humanity is first
choice insomuch as a person never adores his culture. most are at the eight
ball. they watch for an angle. the aglet is wrapped around sociality. one has
some freedom the world is angry — it’s more about the heritage than the actual
art!
