searching back
there’s a shadow like a pigtail. those asphalt-skies or the promise in all his
wishes. our verified traumas our electric flame where one might suffer—the data
of shame those redwood feelings while needing to be tugged—if pulled from self
if rich in cadence or un-sacrificed from the execution. so diluted inside such
raw illusions as to wonder why they walk away. so special in a sense, so
delicate with strength, while never a day to avail. such boxes or crevices or
deep deceit. where a man lives his life as troubled by opinions while souls
feel determined—those angels those angles such ordinary anxieties; or a monster
as she smiles where too much feels eerie. a harder time with self a vendetta with
honesty while one says, “I know what I did.” such trials to grin such passion
to prevail while life is serious bar-work. (I wrote a letter. I never sent it.
it seemed irrelevant.) where disgusts kick-in, harmony is impossible, but a
psychologist might want reconciliation. (I understood the future, as it applies
to hostilities, where a human will test time & again. a person will meet
dementia or anti-you-people, if by chance he blinked; such rawness such
sourness while disputing responses: “I know how perception comes. I know I coded
conception. But he’s an ass for pointing it out.” two people lie to each other.
they never complain. they call this love.
I scripted something. it went sour. I blamed myself.
(it was fire-glass-passion or excellence by hermetic(s) or us learning each
other.) a person will hide or reveal too much or analyze until they dislike
you. another will adore you, a bit too quickly, while disappointed or angry.
while others pass through, a bit scientific, where it meant something
realistic. we seem to feel comfort. we say it’s love. while we define something
self-pleasing. such rain such absurdity, as to snakebite a man & ask
him to breathe.
