we
love this lie, suspicious of truths, spewing verbs. we love to know not, product
of the have-nots, a ceiling falling; where god sailed, to ruin hearts, a tear
of bleeding eyes. i see you a sage, grieving our urns, pulling at fragments. i
hear you a woman, to tiptoe the death, afraid to love—to
that full extent, to be received, at a level detrimental; for earth is small,
the weather of love, my glove at the precinct; for something shattered, to see
it like them, ever to see it like us; in which is trauma, a mother’s nightmare,
to breed a panther. i love it like passion, to know for never, tugged and
nudged within; for love is naïve, the essence of love, to war the academic.
Give me mind—my soul, twisting in swirls, a tenfold knot; where bars scream, to
receive a meal, through a tiny slot. oh the hunger, to wonder of life, the
measure of, it couldn’t be. i pass for
outs, the smell of liquor, to flood a bedroom; and this is me, to wager that
air, as proper as priests; but this is false, to hold for pressures, to give and
not receive: the world is taking, and desperate for more, to give a middle
finger. i laugh the pain, to ponder the truth: we want dice to forever sevens;
where all is glory, for doing but nothing, where some are dying. “why should I
see, when a world is cold, as bold as a nine miller meter?” we blast and move—staggered,
the future a dream, filled with psychs. they jot but notes, a life i must live,
as pregnant as a Vietnam warrior; where hurt is volume, a series of measures,
to shoot a volt. i passion this mare, to see for spacial eyes, floating an
empty room; in which are visions, to touch a retreat, to meet a human; and this
is gray, to feature imagination, the time of a lifer; to love this lie,
suspicious of truths, to feign comportment.
