Some are equipped to
teach. Jaunting, jesting, jousting—as they do. (I hope the crocodiles don’t
devour the tears.)
I knocked several times. You
were unable to answer—somewhat tied to opinions, feeling bleakish, perfect,
forgetful of waves, frequencies, no real substance to knit determination … an
easy ride, a harsher ride, a trail of termites.
Some despise elements
they can’t deceive—the fire of the lotus, those lotic winds, rescued it seemed,
with typing keeping the kittens awake.
Some are equipped to
teach. It requires, demands listening. (Many are carrying their beliefs—facing their
faith—writing their ambition.)
Instead of manumission,
many offer chains, it becomes fifty years of study, with volumes of notes
plaguing what otherwise wouldn’t be full on suspicion.
Each is given technique.
Each exercises technique. It is labelled. Two are doing sameness, identifying
the other as wrongness. Some are equipped to see.
Negation is a skill.
Remembrance is a tool. Many watched; and decided not to knock. No one likes
accuracy of sight. Most love equality of sight, once mature enough to see self.
A paradox at best. (I must respect you—if I am to receive your wisdom: I
knocked several times, the knocks were ignored: days might feel longer, if
unable to read the hands that reach in science.)
I have a time receiving
unsolicited wisdom. I expect others feel the same. Blame would seem futile.
People must acknowledge,
unless deafly naïve, incumbents make decisions, they have the gavel in spirit.
Most like ear-passion.
Condescendingly called ear-candy. I know opposition on the inside—it requires indoctrination,
something positive fed incessantly—in order to break into freedom, when
possible.
In writing, propensity
arrives, reach is debatable, properties seem important, maxims become
challenged. In essence, to speak it in harmony, with one’s respect, never a challenge,
seems more feasible—it shall always win: jotting, jetting inside, and jousting
against a mudslide … it pours in, unbeknownst, many are struggling for power …
by quest … intentionality
… intense misdirection … to imagine if cosmos is listening … initially repenting,
prior to unsaid infraction, one might imagine a loophole.
I have been resistant. I
believe, before interruption, many are seeking positive encounters; times tell
a different saga, a story of intensity, a willing of powers, deep resistance in
fences composed of thought patterns.
I can’t undress it—it is
a riddle—the brains catch up to themselves.
Where are the feelings? They
come to misrepresent at points.
Some say: “I can’t fully
reach where I haven’t been.”
This is hell for some
professionals—they subject the mind to pains—in order to help others … in order
to hear inside those waterfalls as they splash into existence.
