the sunshine
belongs to souls the narcissists the beryl in the tub. like blatant problems,
the lady held hostage, our reluctance to demand a different angle. color is
surprising. its sheer-attached-indifference; connected to itself; glued to its
importance; hurting to tell you, scared to announce it, most could care less.
such sweet harassment—over pottery, silver, seagrass and life. stick it in my
face, a chase for more, so much at sacrifice; prone to doing correctly,
advertised as one sighted, with many an agenda by their insignia. as it beams
down—listening—realizing—time must be made for some things nonsensical. just a
soul, watching water, it’s always moving—sat in stillness, atomic jobs, many
problems later; just a child, raised poorly, granted another soul’s laundry; no
one is responsible, saying much to me, a product of insanity—plus, one is
incapable of feeling, of being ‘normal,’ with repercussions for not submitting
to mere chalk.
