I took
unspent on images or pictographs. I die to bring happiness. I adore like losing.
I feel like desperate. I push while emotional I laugh while it kills, I take a
handful of sociality. so assessed inside, or inadequate skills, so much a risk
to say, “I need you.” wings with oils feathers with flour anger over scrambled
eggs. such penalty to live such havoc to resume where it was once mother’s bosom.
I appear in a second so off-guard while realness is a fad – some atypical
explanation as for raw behavior while integrity is different for each culture. I
stand to lose while knowing fire such low points to be with you. something taught
to us, in this sphere, we endure while fragmenting our happiness. bucolic pain,
serene misery, while if it was thought, it might just happen. what is a woman’s
love? why so addictive, like a man is beyond buried? not many are going to
heaven, so metaphysical, but we prefer now as opposed to later. I was pretty
flowers of deceitful joys where we sit so personally – as feigning excellence,
or dominating ourselves, where sex is quite aggressive. so filthy it feels
good, so blasted or hanging on destructive. every woman to love me, in this
phantasmagoria, it’s been hell in a river wading baptism.
never struggled enough.
never died enough. this is blatant in discussion. a fever for a fool, a dimension
for a demon, while sullen in sickness.
I held you in nakedness,
but it seemed unnatural as coming together discarding our cultures; if but for
longevity, while I yearn for my people, where conversation is pre-designed. I can’t
talk our understanding, I’ve become a leaf, where winds are tugging inevitability.
a writer goes by lakes,
she examines her life, never coming to a definite or completed sentence.
