those faraway roses, meant for
certain sharing, made for purpose—one must be absorbed. the piano unto
frustration, the touch unto pleading, the makeshift unto made concrete
—loving is natural.
she was a good child. she would
listen, process information, and regulate feelings—made to adapt, product of
the singsong, alive, fervent, fluid, a furnace—what would go sour?
in life, quite aligned with
something bad, or good—to make use of one, to assert another is useless.
a lady shifts identity—the pain was
just too much—trying harder to appease consensus—dying harder to avoid an
ulcer.
the tomb of the rebel—the prison of
the monster—the seduction of animals; bothered at moments, tugging around our
predilections, our chainsaws, our suppositions concerning ulterior motives.
a soul married into writing. she
wanted to outdo her, instead of partaking. we must fathom excellence.
the wheel is in a wheel—aloft cryptic
powers, we shouldn’t be held to silence, but we mustn’t say too much, and to
whom it may concern: how do we fit?
doubt has been a huge ‘thing’ with
many—self included: the greater the doubt, the depth is excellence. desert
sacrifices. too much pain to write; too much writing not to feel pain:
the inward observer trying to
express an agenda.
eyes from a space. instincts made
raw. if we use each other, we love each other—if we decide against each other,
we loathe one another.
