I give so much as a caved soul where nothing is given in return. to imagine prestige so diseased while so raw or angry as cut in spirit such disdain for ethics. such simplicity in yarn so breakable in silence while demanding sure promised respect. a person’s life made dung so much bone in perception so elegant a second into mythos.
I feel pleased where nothing has changed while such a glimpse into such fury; to hate self to desire beauty while a second is complicated by upheaval; to stand there such a silly gaze, essentially saying, “There’s nothing you can do.”
a man loses innocence a soul is pitted where a person is unevolved—the kingdom is indicted, all souls must submit, if it’s in me it’s certain to touch you. “But men are dung, they anger over ‘things,’ there’re children in their cleanness.”
we never tackle it. we never speak to certain classes. we get so angry with those pointing at it: the funeral in love, or such non-excellence, while we need to imagine something pristine; — it has no place in that, it means what it has done, it doesn’t respect anything!
I was a creature so placed in others such cushion in a conversation. such a bold faced or insolent lie. to hate cleanliness or despise purity. where one is mesmerized. to think of freshwater to adore freshwater while it was muddy water. the pain in filth the disregard from filth, those members that praised filth. but a cathartic man or an ecclesial man or one fooling & fretting his essence. by caves to vanish or assailed for living while we need everything that hurts him.
soft kisses or blistered lips or such demanding disgusts; to abhor a frame or to plot in earnest so much venom for one devastated. a father needs an innocent daughter as never but one mate while reality might become anti-passion. those miracles by absence, to believe without notice, while those diseases belong to those men.
“He wouldn’t
respect her. It isn’t her fault. He must be crazy.” Every time?
