days aligned by convictions, no proofs, no reasoning, just pure
pegs of certainty; to doubt in the essence, to live out the voices, the talking
of the skies; he must be high, so surreal, surprised, needing the strength of
one haunting the winds; many webs spawned, many assertions refuted, roaming
recesses of the minds; a wallet of prayers, a spur into a horse, the niche of
the professor; at a picket line inside, a bullhorn at the tribunal, one asking
if she’s bourgeois. many mental trips, surging throughout the universe, with
many vying to deceive. if i find joy, another hasn’t such joy, one puts powers
to sprinkling confusion: how is it the bed turns until it has made suspicion?
many fallbacks—probably a gorgeous soul—many aren’t trying to see in likeness—rather,
one does as he pleases. so much in me, maybe conning myself, with pain seeming
precipice—for leaping, for gathering berries, all of my time chasing the
failing beauty.
at a snail’s pace: either to love, to be deceived, or to disrupt
on a grander scale; never to love, adore, and have one that knows us; for it’s
so perfected—i have energy to stay awake, hurting the atmosphere. someone will
boycott the subset of souls in you. someone will go out of their way to rebuke
you. if not me, (never as a possibility), please find an everything.
