logic
seems choppy. intuition is charged by vases, hairpins, or porcelain handicaps.
wanted normality but it seems painful where anything else is envied. we need an
entrance, if cut off, we attack. but I’ve been low, morose, a quickbook into a
calcified cave. many binoculars upon me, a few rooting for achievements, others
judging, or disputing mirrors, thus, distasting of others. it seems weird to
smile, some damage in me, but what are we giggling about? many understand, they
perform by radiance, they make it look easy. nevertheless, the porch is dusty,
the perch is filthy, the pride is struggling to maintain. I need to improve me—the
alien in the glass—where I count articles. I want to feel a certain way. I need
those stars. indeed. one was herself, such passionate pride we take. it gets
uneasy, helpless malaise, to look and see everything. but we shadow ourselves,
we pantomime our worries, we become landscapes. such a resentful person or a
sage as facing normal emotions—with little reach as filled with hostility in a
way that’s alarming. a man of prose is a lone wolf, a woman of poetry-proper is
a sad woman, and a novelist is too advanced to explain. as needing to skate or
shine or study or all the above. our planet hearts, our hut brains, while
helping becomes an inclusive project. but it’s been hectic, while one could
bring a smile, but what have I given! logic seems choppy. intention seems
choppy. often, we don’t know until it’s been done. I capture resolve, it’s a
scream, I will carry what I have done—nothing more!
