I have difficulty emoting it; surly bright cries, filthy palms, over an oil spill. I say ‘we’, speaking to self. I was sick enough to form faith. I can’t assert they loved us; rhythm blue jazz, exotic concupiscence, trying harder to ignore humanity, or dispel self. I have difficulty playing games, rather put it on a table, rather tell a person of difficulties.
I saw eyes made of disbelief: casual affliction, rabid calmness, bleeding a spirit named Jesus.
Some strangeness is afforded cultures.
It amazes different incremental(s) as a mind vigils across lands; to be with concentration, and one appears, as if she were waiting; of course, we say it’s by chance, others say something metaphysical, it depends on where existence has a person.
Pomegranate grass, grave purple arts, captive arms, walking back.
Rather a soul with soothsaying, than a mystery afraid to undress.
It must feel emphatic … just hovering, with nothing else in life of interest.
I have been decent. It has gotten uncouth. It becomes the following: we desire utter ruins, if not, one is displeased.
Such a tangent, so radical, to believe a soul is everything one will ever need. Certain arrangement. Certain reality. Whatever she might be.
One has to get through to self.
I was full I’d suppose. I was empty I’d learn. It was a season. Dying was natural. Something was in the air. A soul came to see himself. A woman was with DV. To see disfiguration, to know a beast lives, one saturated by hate. We never know what faces us. An angel might pass by. A demon might present lust. A soul might dance in public, die in private. I was opposed to it. It was angered by that. It doesn’t desire that I pass by the infraction. It rather I die repeatedly. To hamper over one trespass forever, while those years in torture, should pass. We value ourselves, lightly put—it doesn’t mean others value us the same. We must grow in wings, cultic souls, threshed upon high. It means nothing, but I have repented. This is not how God works.
I believe it hurts, as opposed to a skin scrape. When a heart doesn’t condemn itself, it has faith. I was here; you were there; let’s speak metaphysics. Let’s not. I’ve not a hint into pure reality. Essence seems skewed. And relativism seems cruel. There’s a rubric, russet wines, a table, and hierarchy. You would ask me to forgive her, indeed, you would beg a soul to break free, and you …. Knees to dirt, torn tunics, rend asunder … I suppose healing is for others. We must admit it: there’s something to a basket of pains. I was empty but full, clarity was obscured, something abstruse was about the brains. I listened. I walked backwards, each step. I met you. Be pleased to need something from a person as it was never disclosed. I used to wonder why people need others to guess and decode the Zeitgeist. To imagine many need it; to find life in it; to lean into someone you trust. Anger gives one life; love gives one eternity. I never hold back … aside for decencies … threaded in it, defying healing, self-asserted into an orbit, to feel a certain reign, to generate malice, for it doesn’t seem perfect.
I have no humor. I laugh, aware of it. I help with ease. I feel philosophy, esoteria, and joy at another expressing self, that soul person, disputing webs. I rather it a little upset, this is when it’s a real person. A child heard silence. Jesus came. God was there. To give him over to an angel, one astray, to wreak hell in his members. Indeed, it will not cry. I rather it that way. Without revealing diamonds. I can’t stand the fake one. It gets into my essence, it’s devious, and it knows it. A child is innocent, albeit, their aware. An adult, and we ask: What in God has gotten into you? It will never be romance. It will never be friendship. It will always be animosity. I’m good with that. I have repented. God forgave where others have planted a veto. At some point—we learn to find something to live for. I wonder, I gaze out into the sunshine, and I ask: With all those triumphs, with all that skill, why exercise upon one so lowly; bear with me: I imagine something good is there, so hearing from something good, makes it hurt more. It was a fluke. But never we mind. It is what it becomes: At minimum, I have one that hates me … many of us live with that … our cultures under rapid fire. We know what it feels like. And deep down, we desire all know what it feels like. That other person, that truer character, that person we hide.
I often upon those tears, wish to say something personal; indeed, I thief has entered the church. To have believed upon a popup, incarnation. To have seen different venues. So courageous, to know what death gives. Delicate features. A spirit’s smile. Tamed demons. looking at a soul, distant enough to see, close enough to reach. Going through an existential conundrum. A laugh as it moves, as it’s noticed, where one is aware of awareness. The filth cleansed, the moral adored, the ethic bleeding. A furious temper. A reaching culture. To have a night in a corner watching the family. Indeed, it runs into caves, a mind like a petroglyph, three or five moves ahead. Smarter than he is, but never letting on. Anticipating responses, pledged to brains, studying and approved by ghosts, spirits, souls, better, colleagues … we should keep it tangible; but fire, flame, water, dust, dirt, tunic, hair, waves. Never you listen. Protect all that may be. Never listen to me. I have a motive.
