Three parts, the drive of souls,
crossed, went too deep, can’t let go; verse-bound, maybe an indirect story,
more about aphorisms—the beginning; looking into memories, debating the
outcome, seeing how struggle jades a mind; bringing souls into existence,
hoping more on those pages, to sense a repeat of the life—to love like motion,
arranged like antiquity, swearing it’s mostly new. The days are similar at points, filled with
some activity, the release might become redundant; the beat is sickly, the
dreams are familiar, the debate is over money. A small attitude. A desire to be
‘normal.’ With a fear of being normal. Too heartfelt—too much rain—too much
thought of those over paths. Like hegemony the ache; trying to avoid the image,
the mirror, to feel essence slipping one’s grasp. To hear the
message—misrepresented—it seems anger is pivotal. Too many over paradox, to
have them angered to see power, at full disdain, with life digging like spurs; the
invisible adversity, looking swiftly, asking, “Why do I hate myself?” On a
journey, with a mission, fated to disagree: Can’t tell me, “Yall ain’t worthy!”
We might roar, act unsteady, bottom line, we must be human—we must demand a
modicum of freedom.
