The Pen Could Never Sketch

 I bent low or touched gravel I walked to a residential area. I plucked an orange I noticed citrus I sat it down on a brick wall. I grapple for Jesus, gripping like Kierkegaard, while most sounds are apologetic. I fret a woman if but to have glory while I can’t sustain it. some remain connected, as eternal lovers, while many shall be hurt. I called it mine but a younger me until essence splayed jelly on toast. so much rehab, so much pain, while I notice when it’s missing. “Give it back. Stop playing. I know more about facts!”

            such ontology such myths while I ran through rain, drenched in disappearance, reading something on Kindle. I asked questions if to know her name while answers were numbered. I loved innocence. she was sporting her fame. while I met a mistake – to take course to gauge quicker, we assume sex means a good person! I passed through San Antonio I paused at a station it was too much for eyes to ingest. (most are cultic a cryptic language I still make mistakes. I try to render in good conscience more than others; to stand out to placate to keep my soul cleansed. a clean person a felt dirt look, while Love was passionate in the nineties.)

skin attire or welcomed in hells with deer dogs giggling.

I met a riddle. I was damn cocky. she smiled, a morose beauty, it touched those unconscious regions. I removed myself, I felt a fireball, I knew it was business. but wires crossed, we may muse, but touching is invisible. a fire in me, at present moment, the lights are dim. I felt lusts, I passed by, I felt divinity, I laughed/cried!

            we will never conquer instincts. we may ignore them. but perfect control is a shadow.

            I loved on occasion, as a man feeling despair, where she was deliberate at ink. a strike for women a cage for attraction, a missile for acknowledgement.

            I could to fret or flit or fly. upon a sky-tear while moist in passion where it seems impersonal. I put value there, so it’s my fault, while most are dancing until captured. one is mushy. another is indifferent. another is calculating assets. we devoid love – of those particles – where the contract is its bottom line.

I must be honest in romance central it might be cherubs if but unconditional ecstasy. a poet is a dreamer, a doctor is scientific, an adolescent must be watched. dear Pain, the earth has choked, while angels, ghost through traffic!