I swear it ain’t easy, livid with self, many years
devastated. I thought of you, many boundaries, sure felt deception. I thought of
you, scientific, emotion with purpose, yogi designed, shaman taught, sagic eyes.
Life with clients is different than life at home; they
crosspollinate, however, skills come to surface, consciousness is extreme,
wondering at moments, never fully active, nothing like becoming human.
Differing degrees, pagan undertones, powers
associated, reading into it—those with scars—a sure undercurrent; things we
never suggest, never say, walking, looking backwards, wondering, it never was!
I was sickness, bled of Christ, negotiating with
interior spirit; I was sick, never can say it, it seems many were aware;
dungeon deep, deceived once too many, hard to trust what a man has disgraced: I
wonder how we rest.
I swear it ain’t easy, if souls were privy, they’d
lose consciousness.
Over around a haystack, those brains, so lethal;
asking for mercy, calling one holy, some sick ass problem; one needs to feel
dangerous, manic, irresistible, not merely in some mirror, meant for groveling,
when science has proven her
point.
People are young. True science incorporates it all.
With naysayers forging signatures.
I swear it ain’t easy: looking at it, a man will love
a soul—as she has children elsewhere.
I’d rather wake up, hurt a little, drawing pictures in
a dark cellar.
