Needing What Hurts

 

seconds constitute and construct life, plans aren’t askew inside, the soul participating unknowingly. many semi-deaths, gothic religiosity, hierarchy is filled with praise and doubts. such bubbling pains, sheltered, catering to hostilities, shattered echoes, the soul’s condition. rule one, are those wings; rule two, are those screams; rule three, is pure ambition. to decode the quarters, kneeling with cadence, traveling through tempest. the floating contempt, the wretched curse, the wolf in the howling, at gray matter. so sainted by unction, tasting raindrops, toes sealed in mud. much a free spirit, running with distress, freedom becomes a curious prison. many sunbeams upon waters; wrenching percentages; at odds against gods—the tombs we carry, the ventriloquists inside, the puppeteer at war. the mime is ruined, the orchestra is amazing, souls are bathing at the river: professing faith, protesting the rotten earth, needing what hurts.

Sad Essence

 

Like a reckless leprechaun, the soulprint, unplugging the skies. Sadness the terrible feeling, needing seasonal healing, some seconds are titillating. Reaching for closure, distressed and dejected, honesty makes the picture sentimental. It’s a carnival, the cries, the sober clowns, many bizarre feelings. A pensive paradox, radical satire, accidental self-escape. The den is tense. The lion is panting. Most souls are listening. Dreaming as spirits, wars and passion, the forest has wailed injustice. Unbolted. Chimney soot. A lucky clove. Wiggling through comforts, to cherish unbeknownst to me, laughter, most troubled and innocent. To love until death, mourning the soul, chess is a shame box. Astounded at feelings, to find a dance, many terrible wins. At an anxious apex, wiggling away from an apple, ridiculed for differences. Mushing purpleness. Mixing grapes and tangerines. Learning to function despite the sad essence.   

If Existence Was Imagination

 

I lose grounds, a soiling taste, and gravel moisture. Filled with soul pictures, sweet sounds, and a lotic voice—as dead in parts, living excitements, a tear revved by mere visions. Many appetites, evermore-never, a generational curse—at forces with parents, at tea with uncles, at tyrannies with the internal woman. The fated chantress, tumbling lungs, or rather, her deep suspicion. That pail of loquats, the summer’s winepress, the skittish serenade … many gravid nightmares, a tale receptive to chi, a style composed by ants … the rapidity an earthquake, the mental sea-whale, a velvet symphony; at alms dying, at engines living, recorded as one ache in time. We read letters, those morbid memoirs, the uplifting catastrophe; the vignette, winter’s sestina, the soul so close it burns. Over cinnamon coffee, with wafers with wine, the communion with family; those voiceprints, the antique vase, morbid memorabilia … and taller ghosts.

Coloring Book

 

You have a chameleon.

You give art to life.

It has been a long road.

Love is reexamined.

 

Like a thief, you swoosh by.

You give contradiction with both palms.

Your colors are fluorescent.

You’re fading away.

 

A child looks at you.

She desires to eat.

You are responsible;

You tend to like that.

 

Most cryptic sunrise,

Days are windy,

Pain is art,

Many are coloring you in.

 

 

You must drift, looking for feelings, encouraged to become stoic. Most mythical creature, created by parents, dying the rings. Men and women of joys, husbands with privileges, wives with riches. Tales of preference, intense passion, the tender acme became a beast. Hell to fancies, we’re honoring bonds, one stands at the seashore. Erotic pastime, moistened jewels, champagne seized with intolerance. Generational repetition, tending to tender terrors, reckless confidence. (You felt quakes, a woman at your brains, daughters as paramount. An angry mother, intentional business, thrall and compass. Agony confessing, saying so little, to pursue total alienation. The aguish holder, crocheted swords, Love was intent on behavior. Living logic, wildflower symbols, many encompassed by inclusivity. Churning of souls, expecting eyes, a soul to its deaths.) A need for covenants, fair beauty, keeping distance from everything—coloring an ache.

Sidewalk Squares

 

By a portal, a poltergeist, zest in winds, mud boiling; survival of the skies, birds chirping in cadence, life seeming in order. Great the chaos, the perch, the rabbits, the agonies, the filth. Gemstone eyes, margarita scented, palming a psalm. Such an infusion, centered in uneasiness, life has become adjustments.

 

Many building blocks, similar to Legos, the structure is rabid. Clarity for acceptance. Brevity for emotion. Tragedy for existence.

 

Time stands still. A soul, so cosmic, glances at a spaceship; the rings in essence, the drain next to souls, the feeling when it’s going well.

 

Reroll the film. Appreciate the conundrum. Become, while it aches.

 

Many sentiments, huffing up language, finding comfort in one so majestic.

 

To cherish the elixir; to grant one wish; to have passion in excellence. The loss of souls; the finding of souls; the torment for existence:

 

ineffable compassion, mind gravity, leaning into each sentence.  

Found In Orchestra

 

We desire an antidote for pain, an anecdote for humor, certain vileness has become me; an axiom remains lonely, until paired with a sentence, until given voice, even when the sun is out of commission. Surefire candor is remarkable and off-putting and it touches the heart. Of a caste so enthralled, so adverse, needing it to topple into the moon; the credence of the glow, the mimicry of the needy, as to fit with souls said first in line. Some venture inside, some castle afar, so much a child of Rumi—and that remains controversial. If to surpass prejudice, to infuse pride, to play on piano—the taller trees, the zinnias in bloom, the nemesias hiding in blossom. To outsoar in converse, to leave alone the vagueness, to infer—it isn’t what it feels like—it is its opposite—woe to doing the good works in vain.   

The Way We Make Differences II

 

The first time cast out, like fretting existence, too damn early—to feel imperfection.

The attractive wraith, so damaged with finesse, too complete in beauty.

I’m sick for a phantom. I met her. It lives in me.

The cold isolation, the million-dollar therapist, I awoke so quickly. I’m not bragging. I was hungry as 50-day famine.

So aborted again—not as from the womb—from the community.

Love is aching, a law was passed, she was injured, forced to raise the product, and partner wants to see his child.

Complications.

Awakened.

Like a hyena on an infant.

Like a gut tear. Like running into a lion’s den. So messed the implications. In needs for a new law.

So delicate.  

We need remedies.

Love was good for a solid decade.

A long run, if we know rain, so inadequate inside—so sick for excellence.

The main domain, the rebel soul, like Angela Davis.

So cured, so damaged, a mixture is a powerful creature. I was attracted; I saw fringes; I was attacked; I struck, I hit a bone, I realize impetuosity.

The third time casted out, a laugh for me, a pain too deep to frown.

The penalty for the anguish, the nights seated in silence, the mornings with red eyes.    

I Sought What I Located?

 

It was easy to see … too simple for excellence … the mighty was upset.

Most privileged, most delusional, I’m not privileged … albeit, with excellence.

I liked her figure. I couldn’t see her face. We both seem ugly.

Fierce buildings. Thicker vinyl. Looking at cloth and cleavage.

I imagine love sentenced … love doing time … it was so vindicated … to

hate self, everything she enjoyed, souls running from islands.

I will not ask such pains, as to pray with an enemy, it shows growth.

Lifetime contempt. Never letting it go. It seems like prison.

I popped an Excedrin … too much thought … I drifted … you showed out.

There isn’t doubt of time, privilege, power, and gallop … trust is an issue.

The soul is flaming. The ghosts are real. You blend endeavors:

human, and human +.

So much friction. The mind and its instincts – they puzzle.

One day the armor will serve its purpose.   

We Could Be Beautiful To Some

 

Reaching for pearls, cleansing my soul, told the storehouse is full.

I thought to what was said: too much Ibuprofen:

How would love creep in?

Atop the credenza, rolling tobacco, jotting a few lines. She said something creative. She’s usually silent.

I imagine another knows her prowess, her excellence, I know artifice.

To know life, wrestling with terrors, at one I could never with.

Listening to invisibility, staring too long, please speak!

I left daydreams alone. I was offended by blatant ink.

It must have ached. To come so strong. Like a political prisoner …

lost in future thoughts, checking the Nikes, buying a battery.

Looking now is difficult. To feel like knowing isn’t enough. We could be beautiful …

we forfeit superficiality.

We conquer the apparent, offering pure illusion, it looks different.   

Gathering Symbols

 

Getting sad.

Listening. Getting mellow.

The pain of the eagle, the rage of the hawk.

Needing some space to swim. So affected by the misery in you.

I remember calling it love, making helium,

never a womb alike to yours.

The feelings will give solace. The rain will come to fruition.

Adoring you has been a privilege.

So much animation. Our covert meal. It’s amazing how we hate

silence.

I float through wilderness. Like baby wolves—the rapacious understanding. The gossip has hit its flow; so many cheer tears.

Running a marathon to get to you; laughing at humiliation; to find you in fires.

The last channel, on the last television, the portrait

has become the last impression.

So great a superwoman—so pleased to have lived—Sade in the beginning, and Creed in the omega.

Many sockets, many more padlocks, each woman is made different by symbols.

 

I love the way it gets easier—

saying what pleases, disputing silence—

running into forgiveness.           

The Way We Make Differences

 

Ride the bassline into horizon, bled blueness, describing the sun.

Trying to move, paralyzed, Love so damn

terrific.

Emotions brewing, feelings astray, so intent to find your world.

Eating pie, smiling, the scent in an aphrodisiac.

Didn’t cha know!

I was freedom in adolescence. You were art. It never comes back.

So we hold on forever.

The brightness of the rhinoceros, so bullheaded, I think I misspelled that once.

Purple clouds, violet eyes, to see us naked—the days wake up too early.

Didn’t cha know!

I was silenced. They never let me speak. I wanted an opportunity—if to make a mistake, if to create a miracle, or if to make a wrong turn.

I must decide, at the turnpike, so cavalier about pain.

You wanted peace, serenity, the tranquil-unruly skies;

to see us laughing, so hesitant, trying to protect

something running its direction.

I ate a phantom, became a ghost, facing eternity. The pain is the extraordinary illness—the lakes are heavenward; the lady is so mean.

If to give an entrance, and let’s be honest, if to become every woman, it would be hell to move my resilience.

The cold weather, the hailstorm, the prayer for us.  

The Way We Make Innocence Now

 

I was trying to adore what I thought was real.

Sin is pivotal, in exchange for jeopardy, much climatic wisdom.

I saw you with excellence, mint breath, intense, not ordinary.

Soothing pain. Inordinate rain. An expected child:

so desperate to prove passion, many deceived, our trip to London.

Guatemalan beauty. Furnace frustration. It feels right.

A soul is a problem.

A soul is immortal.

A soul becomes the measure.

Morning has passed. Birds are silent. Aroused by a sighted savannah cat.

Moist weather, made into wilderness weather, such a dry pond.

I pick up a paper, read a few lines, sit down and sip; a

drink of garlic, a lost feeling, Love with sincere eyes; never with a lie,

unimagined, a chihuahua in her purse, a last line.          

Teenage Love

 

The mirage is bleeding. The world is spinning. Truisms are suffering.

The star fleet, the fleece weather, so close it concerns me.

The fever of the manic—the lethalness of the silence—running back to old mines.

The inner marks, the water abrasions, we call them baptisms.

Slanging my soul, the chips at the table, the dice one breath.

So sick for us. So distant from us. You shall be remembered.  

I cut right, looking at a turnpike, asking more interior questions.

I need to know self.

I need to hear others.

One woman is a serious blessing.

At the anger bank, for no damn reason, just overanalyzing.

Coffee cakes. Cocoa. And Nutmeg.

So enlove that morning; like crazy for you; I was so young for us:

those newer feelings, those frolicking feelings, every thought in me pushed in you;

in my winds, the valleys laughing, the mongoose pointing at the cobra;

so dangerous, didn’t know it, so enlove, and couldn’t grow it.

We chanced life, parents watching, never convulsed in a woman:

the light so bright, the skin so supple, the body so perfected:

chiseled politely, made for darkness, the teenage death!    

Fretting Addiction

 

Walking into the dungeon zone. It’s been a long morning. Tried to love her. She was sickened, hated my guts, hated my father—and I look like pops. The danger zone, the answer we gave, it calmed the apparent. Believing in sanity—it helps like hell, asked her—her real name—the spirit inside, that inner woman, the baptized soul, and given fire—the Ghost’s child. She looks like royalty—often treated with disdain—a soul is late in his horizon. The morning has been long—getting to the material—contemplating old professors—wondering about what we share. The last few years—a man growing, an American Politic; drinking like a fish, just slowed down, mother kept popping up; those terrors, the absent sun, the angel beating his wife—the game inside, the dead brother, the other followed—big bricks, a few problems, laughing and shedding more scales. Feeling like Judah, living like Levites, at a question about the vegetation, the Hittites, the Canaanites: If I’m coming after what you have accomplished, as a new Promise, Were you here first?     Back when, a cigarette hanging, stabbing through ghosts, seeing visions, like a fool on his pedigree.     Seas inside, the waves carrying roses, the ships ignoring sirens; as a younger spirit those cries, gaining age these frequencies, fretting the love a man might have for an addiction.     

She’s a Genius

 

The gift you give is the pain you live. You’ve been swimming through mud, bathing in rubbish, un-forgetful, drastic, and part unborn. You’ve sacrificed honor, secluded in valleys, most a queen for onlookers. Surreal in countenance, mystic in practice, mantis in sullenness. The gift you give is the pain you live. Such funny workings, so distinct in swimming, soaring through dirt and desert and dirge. It amazed the people, a doctorate is seven years, internship, and an excellent, seismic energy. You become the phantom. You sing the song-witness. Such willingness to swim—so gray with existence, so climatic with insistence, so understudied. To have become magnificence—sitting with a lonely feeling, so popular with the greatest of souls.     Where a soul imagines, sickles to roots, silt to sands, balls in midair—the punt and probe, the steak or salmon, the life and drink: joy in sadness, redemption and repeat, arms at length.     

Phantom Bars

 

so terribly young, forced into flying, filmed and refilmed. the begging coffin, deadly chains, the core bent and seeking advice. terror in retinas, a tragic expansion, love dies in each sentence.

 

into his rearview, Confucius in mind, an episode, the treacherous saga.  bled for wisdom, consumed by knowledge, sweet ghetto lessons.

 

inner seers, perfect cotton, an eerie drawer, a man refuted in soul.

 

a nightsong severed, an upsurge, to wail into waves, bleeding seas.  

 

casual men and women, pent-up morals, intimate, photic and boundlessness. cultures warring, souls in danger, the voice speaking of its cares.

 

to tremble against diligence, expecting understanding, foibles come out in parts.

 

the shoji has shadows. tales are made of clarity, and confusions. a rated treasure, securing femininity, and unlaced lattice—lockets in terrors.

 

is the soul perfection, or ruined by laughing out its pain? a return to turmoil.

 

provocative décor, floating heartstrings, the masters, the organs. the faithful fatalism, the frigid intimacy, the unfastened recognition.

 

a man cut at silence, and sat in destruction, plugged-in for forgetting.

 

the linchpin is precious, irrigated softly, the world is rare incandescence.

 

the phantom is attractive.

Smaze Is Wafting

 

The wickedness of the absolute—the kernel aflame—to know a person deserves the hell you bring; so decided, so raw, like wartime. The lakes are rumbling, hungering for rebuttal, just plain justification—not eternal feelings, albeit, we have little else to go on. Souls’ churning. Silence effusion. The preacher is trying to decode the skies: it’s been raining for centuries. So great a battle inside—so little the clearance—so much the mercy. Longing to insist upon the boundaries. (Most know: they need to see a person crumble: just enduring with resilience is an affront: one is left to appraise: What have people of color been doing?)     Some are born into resistance and resilience and rescue. Others are born to certain privileges, universal endorsement, indeed, cultural submission—this might be said of us all. The tyranny of the absolute. The insistence of the missile. Smoke, lava, and ash: the river mud is flaming hot. So much a way to say some things: if to reach some souls. In honesty, the child shouldn’t need to look downtrodden after a punishment—we call it child abuse! Moreover, if loving a person is filled with guile and misunderstanding, we soon become guile and misunderstanding.               

Insistent Ocean: Water Never Stops Moving

 

The fire river is filled with flaming mud. Days are filled with rain. Water washes wilderness.     I’ve been lower—thrumming through papers—jotting notes about the table.     I imagine it’s harder in us—the silent furnace—the constant impressions. We’ve become familiars, accustomed to losing life, redeemed in gaining life.     You know the weather. You ignore the rainstorm, the warnings, you add to the ocean—its flooding, its dangers. In the distance, I see an aura. It’s huge. It’s maniacal. It’s sane. It’s crazy. It’s lucid. It bounces back and forth.     A lady is a miracle. Having a child is unimaginable, speaking metaphysically. We know the mechanics. We don’t see the esoteria. We insist on carnality. Sound traveling underwater. A baby acting rowdy. A mother filled with eagerness. And time keeps inching forward. The nights are filled with heat. Air is getting tighter. Moonlight has reached by essence. The fire river is filled with flaming mud.     I’ve learned through the haunting. I never believe in the haunting. I just remind myself, it’s a haunting. The attempt to explain is excruciating. Many dance around the sequences, permitting time to reveal itself, nothing worse than offending the Beginnings.    

 

The way you held eternity—the corners you bent—the way you insisted upon esoteria: the rituals, the damages, the pills, the science, the extraterrestrial at a given second. To have loved the life, until it suffocated, living in an ape’s silence. The feeling of the water, the baptism of the art, when nothing is left, one has a gimmick. If to define the existence of the haunting—is to lose the paranoia of the haunting, they need a certain language. It’s easy to write without concretism. It’s harder to gain correlation. When nothing is left, we have a beating heart. To sit watching it. To speak conundrums. To come close to accepting bull headedness. Or to believe as if something so unique to existence has occurred; the sweet anger, the sweaty miles, the roads are fraught by magicians. The mystic is a movie. To know for it, with it so estranged, whilst one is mantic. So insistent, a raging ocean, a flooded city. The feeling will find you. Life will become defined. You will hate others possessing mystery. The calmness of the manic. The essence of purity. Softer sounding surrealness!     I must confess—it was a ride.     We begin to insist on human centeredness, some type of participation, defined in the papers.

 

You prove existence daily. You have sullen secrets. It has become exciting again: the happenstances, the triggers, the writing, the notes, the laughs, the smirks. Such aging—sensing another has gained immortality, given permission to pursue until the target becomes insane. I say it’s insidious. A mind must be powerful to withstand deliberate assaults. The mixing of the countries—the courtside profanity, the assertion of sacredness—inside the beauty of the misunderstanding: so oxymoronic, none as strong, where it angers the target is resilient.     I would be pressed against myself to become the space in which you dance; such a shell, so delicate, so fragile—running across sand, trying to feel normal, after this ride, there isn’t a break!                     

Raised In This Life

 

Under a sullen grin, sensed as different,

diagnosed as peculiar; distorted facts,

partial truths, walking thickets; symbols

&

recurrent motifs. An example of rain,

triumph, plus, a few hassles. Open eyes.

Years at tobacco. Evinced in thunder.

 

We penalize women.

 

Never understood too much;

a slower kid;

many thought of dying.

Putting years to souls, at an apple tree,

carving, “I ate sin.”

 

Read it like sunrise. Asked several the

ache; many just fell to silence.

Sternness of essence. The interior

chaperone. Life is sub-terrors.

 

I would admire the gift, an ungifted

alien, as estranged from the mercy

of my hands. I would look deeper, proud

to

hold script, puzzled by the manuscript;

wiped

souls,

transcripts,

freedom is part in parts. So essential to

art—the anxiety, no worse day to reminiscing on one … into portals, dominions, swearing, I heard her.

 

Much ash out there. More rain in here. Granny

is 7 now. Indeed, I jest.    

Children That Passed,

 

The chaos is with souls. Those tiger eyes.

Long miles.

Sullen trials.

The world is vagueness, mystery,

Compassion.

 

We might sing sadness.

Children ultimate in spirit. Soul Dynasties!

 

Families are with ashes. Tyranny is

Uninterested in solace, pain is serpentine.

 

To have held justice. To have lost

Mercy. No greater sin!

 

Weaving dialogue, those caves, much in

Mystic deaths.

 

By beauty.

Curious spirits.

 

One might have rites, in haunt, in anxiety.

One sits in vapor, the only

Material, metaphysic

Excellence.

 

At the crevice point, tears are talking.

 

Most are listening.

 

In seeing lose, it resonates, at its return,

It hits the surface, it shivers.

 

Knowing the tragedy, makes the beauty,

More valuable.

 

Pendant shields. Radiant flesh.

Breath and Diamond.  

The Storehouse II

 

the vaultkeeper has been absent, away at war, the funny bone is aching. one has eyes to see, ears to hear, trekking through weeds; the dove tail is watching.

i saw a ship—afar the high seas—filled with aquarium skies.

so much polite indifference, or genuine concern—the issue is trying to remain professional—and close.

aside oaken years, metallic gears, many jeers and jabs;

pure blithe, impassive smiles, or trying to get an understanding.

life starts at square one. it hurts at square two. in trying to survive, one is forced to ignore others – many more will reach for community.

inkstone blinders. thief and temple. inkblots and prejudice.

in getting wisdom, knowledge, understanding—separation ensues.

the lonely reader. the avid studying. the rapacious hunger. segues into isolation.

from abstracts to physics, sensing humanity, asking for more than attributes—needing more than definitions; many are owning their words.

etymologists and stoics. 

The Storehouse

 

inside of plumbless skies sits a feeling, an abode, even a boat for the ravine; an attraction, soothing at seconds, crueler at moments; the spirit is boating, beseeching invisibility, the fields are bosky with thoughts, trees, and figuration—as brought by dreams, greensward images, inly and the execution; to fathom reptiles, to become antiquity, to possess a dinosaur’s resemblance.

the mage is at her seat. the dream is at its understanding—something is moving, but movement is imperceptible.

into a mind-mead, the plash of essence, so aware of the falling feelings; to need for excellence, to discover perfection, as it appears is dreams.

given opera at a late exchange.

given skills for many trained for esoteria, about set to ignore esoteria. so star-crossed (ill-fated), a juggling thespian, better, a crosswise theologian.

the furthest trail was unsuited for beginnings. maya was auditioning. more thunder was expected.

thief and temple.

The Wise Chairwoman

 

it’s ordinary frustration, the pain of the instrument, Will you be there forever? medieval mysticism, framed in dying, merchants as sailors. the room filled with shadows, mainly silhouettes, they speak unto ghosts. absorbed by the ability in you, to ask, Are you ready for monogamy? to fathom quick romance, immediate satisfaction, in a sense, a slant towards immaturity—for chase of the rose, for the ‘call off,’ for the ‘calm down’; much economy in variety, more sincerity in privacy, with a need to feel beautiful for eternity; sweet fawning, harmful intoxication, to lust like Lucifer. so academic, it might work; so lost, it might kill; just precise, it might seem too much—the fire of the ecstasy, to give all one possesses, to acquire, adjust, like crazed wolverines—so determined to leave you alone, such a greatness, with one privileged, in a different agenda; camera champions, enabling habits, hills fraught by labor—the laboratory, adept at acting, until pulled in, with meaning so gray, lust and passion, a need for that one person—not to explain it, not to justify it, simplicity becomes the measure of our excitement. (to sense a kindness, all of its pardons, with souls unreasonable; never putting pen nibs to ink, never asking key questions, just toxified by attention.) the cage of the vulture, as only believable, if the steel is torched together. an extraordinary feeling demands attention. a certain person will give us life. like eating candy, catching a rush, it might come with a letdown. too many categories to deplete, the chairwoman might ask, and need to believe, if the sanctuary is fit for her and her only?                 

Bias Is In The Way

 

I set out with a condition—by an existential, to have felt this way before; by a garden of lies, by treacherous beauty, demented enough to keep gargoyles alive.

 

So much was given, at least I thought, to have arrived at this moment. Adoring as we do, one eye open, sleeping as we endeavor.

 

A palm filled. Never closer. A mouth phantom and perform.

 

Morning is upon us. We met in our rage. We have a strange netting to us.

 

I would come to love a first night stand. So much a gifted person, a soul on fire, so much is given to superficial determinacies.

 

Days are enraptured. This is what we chase. This is why we do it.

 

I know about a woman. She hurts the rules, adhering to the rules, and safe in the rules; she has tried both elevators, the grand heights, and the rules are better.

 

I understand the rules. I, too, fathom, we want to outdo the rules—life seems fuller when it flows naturally. With so much pain, we’re at once set to exonerate the heterodox.   

 

To have said something, so gray, giving leniency to the sacrilegious, the heretic; nay, I speak to smaller infractions, tongue-tied, for matters of the heart are paramount.

 

So tantamount to treason, so unsteady, with one asking, “Why us!”

 

I set out with a condition—by an existential, to have felt this way before; by a garden of lies, by treacherous beauty, demented enough to keep gargoyles alive.

 

Penguins and certain eagles come together and stay together; maybe all eagles—I only heard of a few. Nevertheless, nature is saying its piece. It gives us room for temperament. If upfront, one can only swear against you.

 

I wrestle with reality verses preference of reality. I search out the perfect answer, not for show, but assessing things from all perspectives, attempting to answer the problem from each disposition. This is challenging. One must see their biases—their inconsistencies.