Like tragedy he came into existence. Mother was proud,
father needed a last name. [it was never love, most lust and control and fever]. Love is at it, making moves, so trained at
it, holiness laced with jewels. And
how often has one strayed; And how much closure do we need? Mind war. Clock wars. Battling to get
freedoms. Richer?
Have-nots
are exploited. We feel much pain, it becomes art. And Love reads, I would like a debate with
Love—a good one, where everything is on a table. People escape a challenge because they
never conceded it exists. Like
tragedy he came into existence—cocaine was lethal. It’s been liquor since a child tasted
it. Mother was a sinner, made part in
holiness, ironic, a casualty, bleeding her first born: chunks to rugs, toilet
overflowing, Granny screaming, “I hope she dies.” Mother never forgot. A tale for some, a reality for others, or
something in between, or, nonchalance, indifference, multiplied by damages:
coals aflame, hearts thrashing, Love too insidious, too casual, too much to
listen to actions. In honesty. Some
of us have a time with winning, it’s difficult, it seems we seem too trained.
Try to follow. It’s not bad to know intricacies, as others discover knowhow,
others become nervous, it seems so easy. They weren’t there to see an ocean
dying, a myriad failures, the pain that made home. Many never watch a building
being built, they just marvel over a finished edifice.
