many eat diesel
attend church work in spirit. too much news. too many self-dying. too limited
needing resources. a soul haunts himself, trying to unlock, trying to strike
like impression. it seems murky, living in boxes, eating lemons as meals. a
soul will turn tricks, deceive perception, if but for gourmet existence. I surf
inside, looking at people, listening too closely. I mislead myself. I think
most are with resistance. I think success depends on talent/connections. women
have a way. they know each other. they struggle as a team. they feel deeper—they
cry intensely—they die while smiling. a man acts out. he gives what he refuses
to receive. a male introvert is watching.
I’m an earshot
away, a tetherball swaying, a person avoiding gnats.
a revved soul eats
existence. he wobbles a bit. he lives his jigsaw. he has comforts, they must
feel sturdy, they mustn’t change.
I was lower on
time walking with an urn of ashes. it’s like many are alone, dinning inside,
whispering for assistance. it’s like many have associates, needing guts, with
many more opinions than facts.
I sound like a
jerk. it becomes irritating. seeing us revved up over something we imagined. a
soul will get furious, asked why, resistant to coming back to earth.
many eat diesel
attend church work in spirit.
a wound irks.
value is self-imposed. soundness as soul is a journey—locked in purpose, loved
by skies, judging honor in retrospect.
