woes aside, the ride is longer,
palming terrycloth, the Raid is heavy in the air; roaches inside the home,
fumes inside the brains, the sun shining—waiting on hunger. happiness is
subtle, talking sins is natural, feeling pride for no good reason—it gets
unnatural. looking into other cultures, much male dominance, it seems uneasy. happiness is mental, a moment into a second,
designed to decode importance; so, woes aside, it happens that way, the ledge
in the cliff—is the echo. given one friend, laughing in pain, the feelings are
plural; so amazed to hustle, it was daily, like breathing inside; the man still
moves, hated in degrees, knowing not much was done. back to hunger—never met
her—but parts seem to paint a human; many wrong answers, many tremendous loses,
like Love over yonder. switching designs, out the ghetto, fighting for
individualism; giving a man his wife, kids fighting wars, grandparents waiting
with patience. woes aside—the happiness is the dirt, palms of dust—cast to the
winds; so much sorrow inside, wondering where it came from, hate to call it,
but most is literature—rereading Existentialism. losing the ingredients,
rereading Rumi, most doing excellence for shock effect—as opposed to genuineness.
