I just
wanted to write. I claimed it early, as quite offensive; while years scolded,
and tears crystallized, and mother came back. I thought I lost her, as to feel
so proud, where a psych played mother. I can’t explain, and I must
concentrate, as one lacking sophistication; that deep lowness, that apathetic
love, this woman that favored heroine. I cried her days, and splayed this soul,
as to argue so viciously: those tall tales, that fatal beat, to a drum like his
mother’s; but now an issue, this warm drinking, this forgetful freedom; as born
grieving, this heart for sorrows, this woman with dignity. I longed for beauty,
to know it for youth, as crucified by beauty; so give us freedom, this inner
crucible, as yearning for aristocratic women: the sickness, the bliss, that
life of literature; while freedom hides, struggling through hells, this sky
bending tension; so blame the maestro, this outer symphony, this wage for
death. I’ve said little, as dearly inadequate, as one playing pretend; for he’s
unprepared, for that life he craves, a star knitting a casket. We took it
there, after he took it there, and she adjudged the loses. I live it blinking,
as to find a response, as to charter this soul; for days are monstrous, while
nights are heartbeats, for moments that never came; but cry these eyes, this
cavalier woman, reaching as to catch a tear. It comes so naturally, to cater to
pain, this home-base anthem: the lines of her face, this twain existence, this
choreographed rain. I’m not at ease, and tiered of lying, and tired of seeing,
and tired of crying, and tired of running; for this inner beast, as leaping
while one falls, this cycle of wolves. I’ve died, to live her zone, as this man
that’s terrified; while visions soared, this want to hold, where crazy was
peeking: this inner nightmare, as Beyoncè’s dreams, feuding over blonde hair.
