by
tender melody your name in his memory your suffrage or war such anguish to our
guts. too upset to beg or too honor-bound to feel pity while we kill or be
destroyed. such middle ground, well, read the literature, there’s no room for auxiliaries.
so urgent but useless while we might not fit into her plans. so touched by
dysfunction, it feels normal, if it isn’t much pain, I can’t understand it. “I love
him for he’s normal. he has myriad struggles, even sheer disgrace, his nobility
is his disorders. indeed. the other is improper, coming from alleys, or filled
with hypocrisies.” a woman noticed me. it seemed inconsequential. but she was
looking to defame something self-possessed. we played this game. it’s quite
sleezy. where we practiced at causing discomfort. as for certain reasons, it
looks put together, it seems self-proficient. we hate strength. we admire our
colleagues. we look for people saying, “Yes.” but pain is sweet, it drives the
soul, while losing hurts more with each passing. values vary—the beats are
audible, if to love another I wouldn’t complete science! such mathematical
anguish such art in misery while I still think Love is quite appealing; the man
in his hourglass as sands bury me if but to resurrect for his seventh time; so
ugly in mirrors where one needs self-imagery as others point to sheer disgusts.
our hassles our brains our longing patience; if but to find solace while many
are meant for war for some shall find redemption.
we scream so muffled in silence so
edged one should see; those blinded persons such exhaustion while they pile
manure a bit higher. most would say, “I want you to just know,” it seems
unreasonable. but I have acquired that gift, I see it’s possible, I now
understand.
