Why so many days? What aches like crucifixion? With pain
making power with blood leaking into spirit. Asunder, Love! To become mental,
to see a chair, to ask a question. And so selfish, so sick, with sweet
connection, and never tried to hold it. I sense it on my end, I’ll do in parts,
to imagine what souls are looking for—some conundrum, a damn riddle, something
is sickening about needing so much—it shouldn’t cremate us. I sat in trance,
each volt was you, I knew it, I felt it, I was sickened inside. It makes little
sense. It happens often. I did this, putting it out there. claiming joys. Better
meanings, bigger bets, too much to watch. And it never makes sense. A big castle,
riches, fanciful necessities, passion, love, art and over there, needing to
take a soul’s legend, so to speak. Or pining, held captive, generational
curses, with so much on the line, as if, I’d know how to love you, such a need
to train, but who needs a puppet? Maybe a crazy loving—yelling at the top of
our lungs, throats stripped, lungs angry. Maybe soft spoken, gently, slithering
into eternity. Maybe never a kiss, never a diamond, just pining, sick forever,
screaming, We love existence!
