…
or we were as reading or dungeon plight too much to fret you …. so excellent so
elegant as it came so early. so many moments certain rawness born to pleasure
measured by pain. more camouflage more malaise, bought by desire; miracle palms
a pail of grapes, we made wine taste good. or a bad person, so content with
contempt, raisins melting in heat. to contemn like weaving so crosswise in
agonies made a pictureless creature. aging with grace or feeling used, it’s
terrific to embrace fire. a man spoke of women. he grew wildly. he never knew
true distaste. to have adored chaos to pull a man inward as many would flourish
by deaths. life laughs and cries ever unsteady or painting its mirage. to face
you is easier. to assess you is uncordial. to establish peace is unnatural.
one
stops in essence, as unconcerned with assessment, once a person has become too
human. to unvet goodness, to side in emotion, to make a time in creating
confusion: what person will appear—what triumph will die—why has it consumed in
its dishonesty?
most
poets are radical in observation. most officials are constructing perception.
most have a time deceiving their mirror.
anger
gets fearless like intrepid winds, it’s not by truth of the matter, it’s more
it shouldn’t be undressed.
many
souls are polite, insomuch as getting closer, but we understand virginity
passed away.
it
kills softly, in blight of a human, one must become more goodness.
kindness
is measured out. it’s not a definite property. with needs, it becomes
exponential. like wild animals, they don’t come near, one must coax them.
intense
musicians. unearthed mystics. to hurt a yogi is a call for war. to have
it in face to hear it while sleeping, it feels like intrusion, or growth, or
like being touched—where a person has died, never to feel intact.
I
heard a woman say, “I can’t be sorrier than what I am. I keep saying sorry and
it means nothing. I will come to terms with this.”
