The many walls, the odors; a fret to hear it, a tear to muddy faces. Emotions hold us captive—too emphatic, too villainous.
I was thorough I thought. People watch your walls. I imagine the many games, jargon gone astray, our best minds unsettled. And
I imagine creativity has limits—before eyebrows raise.
Spinning tragedy—so tragic, the obvious curse, and religious color: so cultural: the inner tyrant.
One cosmic grievance: the purpose of breath.
Imperfect excellence. Given suffering.
Sundown blues, mental jackets; neat walls, protected walls, skyrocketing woes. The mirror speaks about love, the channel adores anxiety:
I reminisce upon a lilting voice, filled with joys, to brighten rooms, to give happiness; aesthetic insanity, unbelievable patience. And something was hissing; surrounded by tarantulas.
It was first a person. It became emotionality. It grew into walls.
I can’t impassion it enough.
The texture of invisibility—those understanding trauma’s pictures. Not knowing, most see the glory, and having issues with that.
I might adore you, never to imagine your battle, pulled in and sacrificed. Certain miles, creative axioms, the favor we ignore.
There’s an invisible brush painting my walls. I feel distrusting. I sense an end game: how do I thwart the walls?
What have kids experienced? They say, what about the art? To suggest, it would never travel so deeply if unafflicted.
Hollow walls. Crossed thoughts.
Acidic spirits; fueled to this degree, if to fathom pure discontent.
I think about you. I would never entice you. You seem to be healing. Such relational angst; roots grieving, celebrating beauty, reanalyzing hurt.
I see a golden goose, a silent egg, to crack into violent walls. To picture satire; such satyr souls; asking, nay, pleading for the uncomplicated—as befuddled souls.
Iconic walls. Mind meadows. Looking at it, left disgusted. To force one to live that out.
To seal one as unable to adore.
