(men journal, women write diaries. it seems consistent.)?
so
hard-wired for rain or sorrowful peacefulness or approaching cogitation. so discordant
inside or so much cache inside while reading into creative codes. where a poet
says nothing, otherwise, something, at some focal length. to recreate instincts
to acquire certain proclivities as a soul enlove with invisibility. like toe
jamb some cleft in justice so spoiled while indelicate. an assemblage a montage
or a collage of ups-and-downs; so beleaguered by our status so given to muddy
waters while studying the platypus. we desire rural, bucolic, iridescent
countryside(s); we face bungalows or bodies or distaste.
so much omission such eyes we trust or bounty for comforts.
redolent perfumes or skin soaked in soaps or an aroma such as inherent—our bold cries such as pestilence while a man must hide his religiosity.
I would doodle at times it seems telling where a trained person might see you. such carpet ushering us into chemistry. so much to take cover so instinctive to pet nondisclosure in a soul that hasn’t noticed himself; so, why for defensiveness, why qualm over someone detecting you?
we find questions, we struggle for clarity, while most answers are sheltered from intrusiveness.
we call for antiques to answer problems while we hold answers like trophies. by reaching some height, or placating some instinct, we presume something true if it appeals to sensitivities.
some are unique. they favor resistance. it must first sting to accrue an audience.
thus, pain is normal, in a land of mistakes, where brochures aren’t passed to each generation. but something itches sentimentality, our sacred books, where most reject them. we are wired for independence while wired for dependence while certain mandolins are most appealing. I’d sketch a monster fraught by black paint while depicting the interview of deficits.
