what
have the signs spoken? has one his
private fiction?
I think,
rethink and try understanding, where I shrug and spackle irritation.
things
made apparent, self-harm, the tides create billows; crying, craving at seas, no
one sees the disappointment, no one cares enough to offer a vest. such rough
patches, sure plaid reasoning, many are suckled into grayness: the old lion
fights for his pride, he must be replaced, his cubs are killed. tender nectar,
warm skies, windy clouds—assigned, nay, relegated to pits and ditches, negotiating
with snakes and scorpions, learning to siphon venom—from soul, brains, while
smiling in acceptance. a spirit inside, uneasy inside, rowing upstream—many salmon,
many days, a storm has formed—right above desperation.
a
person is self-sufficient, but inspiration, over-measured, becomes treasured
advice. the inverted cartoon, the normalized caricature, the preferred carnival—as
ventriloquists perform, as harlequins dance, another soul is combating reality.
like bitterness is sweet, to one rejecting balance, if but to endure more agony.
like lying inside makes for a parade, insomuch as, deep deceit builds self a
little higher.
I know
of a person, maybe two, one is a misogynist, the other, hates men. looking at it,
as pure chaos, while souls partake in defacement. one in the margins, watches
the centerpiece, as it writhes and spins—checks and balances aren’t a factor.
(I believe most are trying harder, if to love self, listening to talk shows to
learn what love is; appreciating self, a dear reflection, sunk into a part
hating itself.) maybe it takes more time, or infuriation, or a mirror made
irrefutable; to realize people, to see and sense motives, to know if it were
love, it would feel clearer.
