the river is a tiger the path of
dying if to show deep remorse. feel the wilderness as it blends with clouds, so
cirrus, so mechanical, so determined to control elements. going easier on self,
holding with grip, those pains those juries in skies. a small feather in an art
store, it struck emotion, so we bought it. by courage to call. it often feels
painful. at this moment, a soul is sinking—trying, frantic to swim. it was hell
for us, brutal for you, to have endured major blues, with adults failing the
enterprise. how hard we try—to behave like normality—with pathology chasing its
children.
go harder in self, with good
intentions, while self was abrasive in action. never settled on roses, never
chose silence, they seemed to appear—with romance seeming to accept pain. no
matter the ink, the collages, the montages, it still chases, it still aches, it
still kills in dimensions. so much weaving, so curt at times, deliberate to put
your feelings first. you attack life. you need to feel correct. you push people
out. in knowing, in seeing self, it’s a lonely, hardwon life. the cashier is on
high, in giving a thousand-dollar bill, for a five-dollar pie, we expect
correct change.
realizing something lost, in
something gained, a soul is aloof from itself, its reflection, its irony. in a
life time, there’ll be many groceries, one mother, one father, as an absolute;
in loving it hurts, it ignoring it baffles, in knowing right, as opposed to wrong,
governed by self, it will continue to churn, to burn, so deeply trucking,
carrying every person we ever met. the Pisces is the Taurus, the Taurus is the
Pisces, the melting is the design; so authentic, so put together, to re-castle—to
feel the world, as in innocence, with a gift undermined by society.
it was a late evening, suspected as
it comes, not to tell business, but some uneasiness is developed, as opposed to
inherited. needing closeness. suspicious of closeness. too agitated, too hurt,
to become receiving. first impressions are lethal, not necessarily genuine, so
deceptive at times, where one debates if it was authentic. in need of intuition.
in need of evaluation. life becomes a project. in pain, we might assert, most
are in so much sorrow, it becomes easy to gain trust, because essence needs
comfort—truism, urgency, something exegetical.
knowing another was surprising.
never me on a lazy rising. never selfless for each other. such generous
evilness! still a child those seasons. able to see it unfold lately. some days
lower than others; usually low; thinking on the myriad countenances mother had.
so gracious for your existence, using it wrongly, never a grunion of disregard.
in eyes that beam, in a countenance self-conscious, so bent on being natural—deceit
is deliberately obvious. such a chess-woman, every day is a game, every reality
is meant for altering.
Vienna souls, sweet Italian beauty,
while most of us feel ugly.
