I listed my soul—participating in
pain, the block was boiling. Can’t escape the chase, the river, baptized at the
church. Many died at the church. She wouldn’t agree with blacks. The smoke
wafting, tussling and struggling and muscling adrenaline—the discipline is the
amazement the parched spirit, so much hunger to live; in-for-out, so enlove
those days, the bell is the knell, warring to find freedom. Most lived like
running, trying to capitalize, looking for trying, they wondered why so many
were fencing. The face isn’t what it looks like. Love is sick of everything. I
come with a problem, the political map size. It irritates. Ever at war, ever
crying for fairness, ever coming with baggage. So religious, searching for
facts, the answer doesn’t come prepackaged. The temple the melody so low, the
good life, the soul wanted a necessity.
