I shall
not pretend as something knit while I knock at your soul. such paradox or
oxymorons or a shift in admittance. so much her agenda our casual or smug
deliverance while never held accountable. by interior government those eyes or
whispering expletives where raw feelings deny redemption. the woman in her
castle, such sublime intuition, as to listen where something isn’t connecting.
but the man is a scoundrel, an irregular creature, to have left what he wishes
would return; as if forgiveness is ecumenical, or power is weak, where we have
set demarcations. the gods at her side. a mind as an armoire. such other words
appear in unison: afflatus, cadenza, credenza, opera, symphony, or such
asymmetry. such as running from past, soul, father, or intimacies; but so
present, such rain, as condition grips, it dies, it was nice to feel joy! pluvial
fire or brimstone attacks while we assemble a talkative tower; so increased
while parents decrease where church becomes inner silence. such a need for utopia
in a system offering dystopia while unspoken madness causes room-tension.
but you are science you have those features while many ask, concerning such
sternness: by much wisdom or understanding cycles, raw anguish will show
knowledge. we take tacks to post posters where we lose necessary concentration;
insomuch as vehicles adored for compliance, raved over for rebellion, or
aggravated for independence. I shall not pretend as something knit while I knock
at your soul.
you have a force. it protrudes from your being. albeit, there is pain, you will always be lucky. (I realize disappointment, not many make us proud, but what does irony spell out to us? the division of the nucleus. the replacement in hours. the gravel bearing witness! upon a kadupul into an island a bit underestimated—our foggy glasses our sky-beams our interior planetarium; as raw creatures or nibbling licorice or debating some intense emotion. a tear for inhumanity a river for losing or an ocean for feeling cursed): Namaste!
I can’t plead the mountain, but I can ask a witness in the grass, where hours reframed, everything we believe in. some adore perfection, when regular we dine, when out of order we resist its novelty. I trespassed myself. I spoke to a mockingbird. I arranged my funeral. thus, a man dies, he was buried, he now fathoms the Second Coming! we forgive in interests to self. we rebuke for it seems appropriate. or mainly, we hold to life our pains. such detriment such an incorrigible feeling, while something inexorable is taking its grip! if to impugn gravity, as requiring an explanation, where such sternness should realize the magnitude.
such beige-bluegrass into its nightmare while I hold the grave accountable. surefire bondage, where words don’t work, so I aim not to assault intellects. we must hold our territory. we must exorcise intruders. indeed, we must cherish our one decision, as never to search out evidence, while this feels safe, it’s the harm of existence. (I wonder in the dog-eats-dog world, of where reality, something universal, I wonder if it even fits us. such regal creatures, or such important gladiators, where deviation is a sign of renegades. so, what happens, in a cold existence, if the world fails to forgive you? we often say, “The hell with them!” but deep inside it aches. while we pair with a group struggling through destitution.) it’s just something to muse upon, where agony rises, to recognize most are not on board with such existence. it becomes comparable to a challenge, where many are ostracized, while science says, “We give what we wish to receive, especially, if we venture to have friends.” such certain frustration, such a need for something, while it may serve as a reason for one’s present table!
