while
manic the soul is on display—depicting portraits, visions, appealing to
wildness.
something
in me wants to break cages—some freedom-prison, where, despite, freedom,
something is unfree, trapped, while it can’t get out, it can’t be satisfied,
even when it breaks free—too much brevity.
we
might sense danger, it pushes forward; we might sense death, it begins
negotiations; we enter into something extra, another world, banished from
ourselves, our comforts—this is for the manic—everyone else is set free!
I
met a person. she needed to see it. I deprived her of seeing it. she’s seen it
a million times—but not in me—this becomes ink obsession.
a
man must watch his mouth, his ink, untamed, inside a wilder soul. the soul
doesn’t care. it wishes to vocalize. it likes to rev the engines.
as
a manic soul, I partook of delicate realities, those no one will confirm.
we
give little attention to what we can’t understand.
…
but!
some
doctors are privy—they’ve gone further, they’ve reproduced mania ….
we
see it in a second—where he’s not a client—he’s a person with a certain slant,
insight, mega-authenticity.
I
see her as a spirit. I can’t explain it. there are gray occurrences, but they
don’t matter. the soul wants to address her, I keep saying differently, the
soul thinks the next level lives in her.
I’m
mad for confessing!
where
this is for each of the few.
while
“we” refers to manics.
