Such
humiliation, guided through insanities, at loss to culture whys; to embarrass a mother, to humiliate a child, at woes to
decipher illness: this miracle pain, as trekking white snow, where color is an
intrusion; but long it lives, a product of hearts, a wife with kids; to harness
forever, our childhood conflictions, wrestling with mother’s ways; this family
of pains, dying for living, as smiling through turmoil; to have thwart a
future, while painting love, while moving from joys to depressions: this heart
of strains, knitted to mirrors, running while shifting backwards. There was time to die, bleeding forgiveness,
while frowned upon; this near escape, as never it was, bleeding humiliation:
those tall tales, told through bias eyes, where education is mere laughter; to
need for nothing, aside for personal thoughts, as measured by nodding glances.
Oh this life, as never challenged, speeding through red lights; that district
of ahs, while grandparents cringe,
where daughters laugh hysterically; at moments for truths, those reasons for
wars, a scar to an ego; this pyrrhic victory, as to lose so much, while palming
a jaded gem; that type of influence, lacking variety, as want for graces; to
impart chaos, this needed film, to falter by offsets; to station eternity,
where able hearts meet, while all remain silent; this thing of graves,
searching through humans forever, shaded by patterns of behavior: this midnight
trail, groping for lanterns, to see it in an absent soul; where love is
wanting, as never taught to love, where such is without definition. It becomes
a phrase, as carrying little substance, where it lives as long as things run
smoothly; but more to balance, this running from mirrors, as feeling
humiliated. We drift this way, aware of proprieties, while haunted by
regressive feelings; this place of nomads, roaming through islands, as not a
need to settle; but all are secrets, as no one sees, as all are impressionable;
this soul included, peering at sadness, without recourse to alter it: this sea
of dragons; or leviathan’s lagoon; seeping into something tragic. We wonder for
differences, as one with illness, as another, rightfully scarring souls; which,
is pardoned, severed by chaos, slow to answer those yearnings? Our days are
few, a mind filled with travesties, wrestling to smile. It’s a deep wound, as
to feel loved, while peering at eyes we’ve destroyed. It becomes a curse,
sectioned at turns, racing through addictions: this flurry of sadness, as it
becomes resentfulness, where such becomes nonchalance; as running from home,
from state to state, staring at our mirror’s home; this fatal event, that
fragile sanity, if but a reason to believe: this thing of justice, or deep
humiliation, steeped in universal debauchery: that casual affair, while with
needs to offend, where one feels at home. Oh for irony, to hate offenses, while
scarring a nation.
