Without you, there is wonder. With you, there is indecision. It is wonderful uneasiness, comfortable outrageousness. We ignore rain and tread mud. It was awful. It scarred me. In depth, I grow into distrust. I wonder if one could ever call another normal; especially, when one is not staring at one’s reflection. Each group has jargon, acceptance, and those outcasted. Nevermore, such elitist arts, poets are judgmental. I prefer what seems in part to ruin what has become normal. To hurt in order to love, seems flawed. Of a caliber where it must reign in discomfiting truths. I need to see what aligns with human nature, as opposed to a private delusion. So indeed, the poet will remain scarred. Notwithstanding, cordiality upon tales, to adjudge a soul, it went both ways: Have we ever blessed something foreign to us? To leap upon negativity; to lie to a mirror; to live as if everything is in place. (I was chasing as a lad. I learned a significant point: Truth negates itself, and it aches in texture: If someone feels terrific, one should look again.) Life has a code to it. Life is far too ancient to be decoded. (I know a brilliant woman, a few, wrestling with outwitting Wisdom; they live in the driver’s seat, many believe they own them, they never laugh.). Nevermore the deep enchant. Youth did triumph. I had art and aesthetic, lying to myself. Life is not decoded; we learn her patterns.
