the art of caring,
desperate to love, not mere a person, everything in us. an opalescent face, an iridescent
scar, filled with buffoonery. if to realize, thighs begging, bodies anxious,
coming to realization. never safe, the world is haunting, casual pleasures,
casual excitements, casual deaths. finding invisibility is near impossible:
maybe a trained Zenists, a Zionists, such zeal, as a Buddhist. too vile to
desire what we desire, to see we’ve not grown, chemistry destroying ethics. if
to chafe from love, if to panic in love, if to manage, some mystery, some
voltage, in love. a soul will starve for passion, fiddled with, roamed, as an
empire, desperate for compassion, eating hives for love. so existential, so
despised, so much aloneness, it feels social; by its plight, carved from
sorrow, trained, released into a jungle; deceased bodies, metaphoric bodies, a
person is hated for having ambitions, dreams, passion, chasing his elevation—believing
in romance, sharing beauty, with one desiring to hurt his heart. goodness is badness,
self-worth is threatening, screams are deafened. take the helm, My Catastrophe,
let wilderness blight, let days invert, carrying beauty with arrogance. adoring
a soul, asking for clearance, debating anxieties, submitting to raw animalism, giving,
if dying, needing security—as wealth in penalty, as life in desperation,
needing a person’s affection.
