the
charity of poverty or amazement of the addict the panting of the bear. so
secure in chaos so livid, We need control! as chemic souls racing over
synaptic(s) so bothered by differences. I try in warmth or resisting
frustration while it never stops. those aliens those mistakes as asserting
dominance. such conscious souls as utilizing powers where dynamics are
self-resenting. our mountains our dark woods while conversing with raccoons. an
aspect where it reigned true while a mother held a grudge for twenty-nine
years. we’re deceived in this very lesson: Death does not determine happiness.
the public domain where one is eager if but to chew a man to shreds. (as it
listens, we determine standards but the addict is a different creature: those
private monologues those interior dialogues so spaced so deeper so dreaded—upon
a cloud gutting reality at a man’s forebrains—those frontal activities while it
builds where one is to behave. as seen in god-syndromes or authoritarians while
one speaks of egalitarianism; (such contrite spirits but filled with wonder
where one is volunteered to experience a person; so darling to a lonely soul,
such as something bitter is considered sweetness); so alien by me so intimate
with addicts so floored the addict would whisper—as caged criminals or office
tents while it happens in every city—the plank for children the negative
antennas where one dies a smidgen. such resilience as it’s spoken as meaning
one is good to carry their travesties—by those hands by those drugs as just reliving
a person’s tragedy). so tender the
thunder so much inner traffic while one possesses something good. we must
remind ourselves, we must be intimate with ourselves, as knowing when
resolution is like kitsch. we deal with activities we die like pantomimes or we
run a dear risk. once pulled-in the reality is lethal as it never ends. it’s a
deadzone filled with violence complicated by silence. the soul is victimized
others feel satisfied but they never cease or desist. oh for this color as
opalescent where most men are enchanted; indeed, or thus a skylark, or thus a
scream, or thus a passion. the parade for the tyro the grime for grind those
pigeons sitting anxiously. social gymkata or pretend amore while most lose self
in violent shifts. (as depleted at points or fevered at points, we realize our
incompleteness; such a rapturous person while disapproving of personhood such
adroit wilderness—the curse of the oak those oaken graves our feelings
destroying our concepts; the man in his egg the woman tapping where earth cracks
softly; such fervor for a lover such a person another never sees or too close
to ruining all passages to clarity.) those chairs as they chance the forest of
the wildfire such flashes as gelid into familiar characteristics. the offense
is this, in a world supporting it, to presume all addicts are by sameness! by fields we met a younger self the pains
over there are counted as treasures. such differences between us, such short-term
levity, where some adore chaos; for it gives life, or it gives meaning, while a
person is filled with hats. a man is considered strange, where his ethos is
different, where persons seem more of a visual. we run risks, in all that we
do, while something puzzles most undergoing difficulty; the sky as it rages
those fires throughout sanity or wheezing numbness—(where one needs to
resuscitate a person for a lost magnet.) such boundless meaning such roaring
sentimentalities where something is tampered with that can’t be adjusted; but
more to intention while it just feels its purpose in a world counting its
frustrations. nothing as safe,
nothing as cured, we acquire tools! a
person is determination while another is passivity where both disgust each
other. so much bliss, or happiness or solar-force familiarity—as seeing the
negative, a bit interested in the positive, as to show one an addict that might
function with society; those symbols those factions, where an alcoholic is talking
steps: hence, our confessions our lies our personal satisfaction—where something
numb might feel pathos or attempt to live by logos with pure
resistance screaming at his deficits; to swelter through it, to be written in
blackdamp, as furthermore, a harvested winter!
