Softer waves. Resplendent fires. Sensing more than actuality. So battled inside, made curious, listening to sound bites. To gather intentions, needing sweat, so sad, sure lonely, to find solace in ecliptic arms. Lost it all on one wish, makes for jaded skies, bleeding what we invested in; trying harder, right there, to collapse into an outburst. Tentacles tugging, terrors most treacherous, triangles and tales. To begin thinking, to advertise insanity, a man was screaming concerning interior ants. And you’ll watch as you damn well please. Period. Nothing romantic to it. It comes in droves, flitters and frames, ghosts and panic, to feel it in scores. To need something astute, while something acute blocks the possibility of passions—this, indeed, is poetry. To live it as it churns, to beg it to listen, with nothing in garments to cover the pain. In watching miseries, thrown into rockets, soaring like sorrows are artistic, to have deaths, to lay in bed, to hear snoring, to look over at a clock, to imagine—this is it. Bull crap. Each person is living three lives. This is the design. We wrangle over sins, transgressions, music, soothsaying and seeking bliss. To become averse to her, to sense something treacherous, to imagine putting too much into imagination. Signs and symbols. So much has transpired, people miss the nuance bilking(s). What if … some dangerous pain … to decipher in one instance, bled of rationality, hoping upon a faithful union. Some folks stick … they ignore each other, for they need each other. Upon an album, blaring the blues, a softer knocking, an intimate understanding, bodies falling into submission. To look a soul in the eyes, pouring out sanity, determined to be right.
