It’s a hectic party, where life is buried, for an altered
purpose; while chains clank, and souls clamor, and change is process. We want
for daylight, as presented with nightfall—this inner contradiction; for we will events, through mere our actions,
afraid to confess; while hell is mental, as too is heaven—this borrowed
tradition. We see dilemmas, filtered through medias, afraid to face the
epistemic; this black screen, this screaming closet, through which are trials.
Our hearts are radios, tuned to certain frequencies, at once alarmed by change.
We want for easy—this complicated world, as to suffer from sadness; this thing
we brave, for want of sameness—our mirrors churning with shame; but what for
joys, that childhood angst, where life is received newly: that hidden charm, that
vacant stare, that inner ladder; to brave the nights, longing with fever, a
pastor of philosophies; to want for more, where challenge is natural, as to
adjudge life; that gold piano, flavored by violins, that almond cello, that shy
a symphony, rounded by embarrassments, as to struggle for mediums; and what of
love—that probing wind, affected by a glance; where life is rich, the deep for
deepness, as shallow as new clothes. This can’t be life, as startled by
boredom, sketching our futures; and it couldn’t be love, this unstable feeling,
to ignite such joy; and what for knowledge, to filter through grays, where
truths are hard won. We imagine greatness, while pleading through welts—as to
be molded by wounds; as affected adult-life, stressing over midterms, as forced
to determine intelligence; but more that feeling, screaming for acceptance,
where worth is determined by strangers; so probe the nights, as to soar through
marsh—that the days may speak of wisdom.
