the touch is its ache, herein, the siren is harmful. at edges trying more with a phantom at my personality. they call us distorted in which we reply, when it happens handle those screams. so outwitted. a person will hate us. born reasons into disbelief. too keen on a person try to walk away they tug jute or fabric or essence. it matters too much, I do as pleased, but I need praise for angst. the hatred in a soul, weaving its weft, so crosswire so much heaving, we know it aches. aqua scented behaviors such rushing waters while I sit absorbing what I now see. so strong so gifted so put together—at avenues sold to endeavors at a need where most are silenced. maybe Jeremiah aside a raisin tree in a situation needing patchwork. too fretted into guts like wheezing without oxygen. not a whit of compromise for a gallon of broken color we’re told to tailor ambition. I need to say it but most have said it with miles between our next calamity. a plaint for the garden, sure grief for breathing, required to ignore what’s screaming. I might sulk today I might rejuvenate today or later I must resuscitate today. another dozen pages another illness another dealing with something hasn’t respect for true winds. the touch is its ache, herein, the siren is harmful.
such indecent charisma such an indecent scribe where pieces leak into shadows.
I would say something should be while something said must be unsaid; but it’s as it feels it screams like biases while it needs its shoji screen. a palm of walnut sympathy a pile of pecan indifference an ounce of blueberry heaven. if but to shift like a grave of habits, grass growing on the sepulcher, a mind still universal. born into exile or a baby as a slave while we wonder what’s being suggested.
juleps
and dandelions a nearby orchard with many silenced for honesty. a pile of books
for burning. teachers threatened by treachery. religious raked over coals. it
gets a certain way, so many miles extended, while we feel trapped in a mazeway.
shrubberies to hide persons, or hounds fed poison, or families growing
distance. a sheer truth, in this second, as felt we need constant romance. we
see a chase we are drinking blackwater while doing the same grief over
and over again. it gets obvious, in this land (speaking for the author), I don’t
quite get it. so surrounded in submersion so many ideals, while they anger
harshly. “So abandon ideals, become cajoling, be free without one thought in
discrimination—as in discerning potential harms.” such mythos in a world
divided, where one group wants the Classics, and another group wants the
Surface. so many asking for Freedom, so many mixed definitions,
our bodies taking our blows.
