We were lit, sipping liquor, to stumble into a
situation. Love was feelings, to drag a soul, pulling one out of himself—so skilled,
so built, an insidious creature.
I was a ghost inside, to see a ghost outside, to
offend, I fathom, but would it be different? Just playing Nintendo, just
filming disgraces, a future bled of it curse.
It never concerned me. I kept as if the justice. An art
in blood, a filthy mud thing, aborted, and still living.
Sealed in boxes, forging portraits, made nine grand on
animations.
All of us, in one jar, trying to share a
nine-hundred-dollar steak—surely, I exaggerate.
I still think about you, like a damn fool, to imagine
the dirt you would toss; to dream further, to know my reality, to know the
filth I bury.
Got one on me, just for kicks, maybe it hurts—the sky-blue
terrors, the phantoms appear.
It was 70 mph, pushing an agenda, steady on a given
freeway; it was philosophical, it was young, the Love of one’s life.
I rethink you; it just pops up; I’ve grown to dislike
you. Indeed, some twisted dilemma, some mental funk, reminiscing on
adolescence.
Needing existence, debating logicians, at a mirror,
and seeing faces.
Love is cold, austere, it isn’t my business. I push
through, like a damn fool, I should slowdown—how long?
I envy a bag, puffing chronic, getting lost; I envy
feeling nothing, pondering nothing, it couldn’t be real!
Many juug, shift lights, appear like a wraith; many
love, to adore, debating actions daily; like a damn machine, trickling into
morals, pleasing mind funk, hating reality.
Many of us—loving one—as never a chance; I suspend justice,
I laugh and take a drag, it passed.
