such
a filthy habit—if to unnerve me, I gaze over at a book. souls are blessed!
I’ve
noticed in my absence a scar. it appears to me. it irks me.
I
don’t know what psychologists know, about human behavior, I just know, it’s
ironic, difficult, unmeasured, hard to agree with, where understanding is made
elastic.
the
air is different, much is forsaken, others are proud to create a wedge; alphabetical
pains, autobiographical trophies, a person may desire closure—measures—thawing his
indifference.
I
am with needs, it seems—never fully realized—just bereft of total intimacy.
I
fault perceptions; they arrange in chaos—one expects more than what has been
agreed upon: holes filled with muddy water, snakes fraught the hydrants, sweet
shame enjoys its behavior.
by
an expansion of rules, never full appreciation, a soul becomes indoctrinated.
I
was with yen for an ideal. it couldn’t be captured. cliches are jejune, unstable, unrelenting.
I
ask if we know humans—if we see with depth—the pain that hurts, becomes our
vase.
