in
terror in exhaustion, a man to his harpoon, until it becomes existence; pride
buried, a willing hand, in driving a man to brinks, cliffs, casual pain, it
feels normal, Love is sicker.
I
do most understood, a person you need to share, as in one you can’t possess.
many
regions, angles, signs, we might ignore—how else did it happen?
like
a dumb ass beetle, bumping into objects, without a damn clue.
one
would leave you there, arguing dumb shit, pensive, obvious, telling you
something is not right. of course, any complaint is paranoia, Period!
I would a gorgeous heart, gentle
pain, screaming, “You must care!”
so affected over
time, people don’t care, they never sense something never comes back; sicker
souls, in a naïve country, a place for dying souls.
so bathed in
blood, seeing as it lives, a city of ghosts; a woman so close, dirt so high, asking
for a session in actual love.
when essence bleeds,
so rough to confront it, so depleted by lies; an angry misfit, a winning in
time, to chime with a professional.
the
mirror in exhaustion, the plaint, the people, the papers—as lost, losing, left
to exile.
you
see it, she answers with difficulty, you laugh, it hurts, but it’s good. it
prevents the great mistake.
to
awaken, with this a dream, to need willingness, in depth, in treasury,
something seen in town; by courage to have it open, by pains to see it catering,
some feeling, knowing it’s losing, but it gained existence—the place of the
phantom, the same as over yonder, here, you know for friendship. those biscuits
over laughter, felt in gut, looking at passion marks.
