we
are mastering moods, certain shifts, as introspective liaisons. we are
semi-discontent, or quasi-lovers, where we desire intimacies. a man is sullen,
even for years, his anger is tapped into & he becomes better. it never
leaves, even while joyous, one feels it investigating: too much glee & one
is hesitant, but somber states seem to feel comfy.
to
meet a person as to assess a person, something shifts in us. we rely on
perception. it becomes interpretation. but are we accurate? moreover, is it
relevant?
true
honesty fails to suspend itself. true frustration sounds authoritative. &
true love aches for its object.
I saw
her in aura, it looked familiar, I searched to find myself. it mustn’t be
asserted, in order that it has existence, but a little nudging helps us.
I am
in essence for her, such celebration for her, while popping a guarana.
upon
reception we spoke. something was askew. I realized I had written something
unapologetically. instead of apologetics, where we defend something offensive, I,
here, make a public apology.
truth
is never capitalized, for it is, unfortunately, relative; but we might claim a
maxim, something apparently true, A person has the right to exist!
it
was late summer the years had spun a web a man was at love like he owned love.
such a delicate scar, those hopes screaming, while an adolescent speaks in more
truths. such fever in immediacy. such raving kindness. where we have yet to
unveil the stranger. if but those first three weeks, as placed on repeat, one
might die with passion.
I
have offended sensibilities. I have obtained suspension. I drift into spaces a
bit aloof. such insecurities as they race into perception while a dear creature
is having a hard month.
our
terrible axioms, I have a few, while I want to believe our cores desire
something positive. indeed, one speaks to aberrant orientation, where a child
has become anti-humanity. we’ll leave that to experts!
