such a stereotype such stigmata while a man dreams about normality. by films of travesties trauma on replay, such a monster we cuddle; or spatial ghosts to sit in darkness so raw into sensation. a soft petal a gregarious guitar or an egregious inclination. so much to exist for, sweet upon a harmonic so stationed in stillness. a true yogi as desiring nothing in exchange for ruffling depression. so much deception. it’s hard to decipher. as to where it might blossom. those tender skies those ruminating aches while some people never blossom. to imagine a germane friendship a touching beauty while “I would never harm you.” certain security. or to walk with me. as this is compassion. so close it hurts. so afar I scream. where creatures form into shadows.
I would love you, despite, hostility, or those defacto lovers. as to have died in us so near to evolving through us by far a soul enveloped—torn pavement or promenade liaisons where it wasn’t three hours—before passion mixed with anguish close to marriage in seven hours; but he couldn’t upon a scream to take to soul a premade family. so exotic so dedicated where it became incremental availability. one would be a feather, into a dream, where both took to escaping. those tricycles as seeming innocent while a person is filled with chaos. purer needs zero accountability while lies became concretive. beauty in its scar. venom in its understanding. or low enough to accept any terms. a man will love, or never know, exactly how his Love has been mistreated.
so discouraged from agony so intimate with agony as watching something as it grows. so tender for hatred, it seems so natural, for a thinking man—can’t be a colored man. we see anger, so spiteful such poison seeping into earthenware. a daughter come pain so much to have explored so centered around what he has lost. too desperate to make ripples so silently disappointed, while nothing appears to be intimate. a man will talk himself into a stupor, or feel akin to catatonic, but never that extreme—as he sits in darkness by glimmer of our sun where it leaks through curtains; our opened doors so special to creation as to listen to a mini-human. if but entrance to arrange something tactful while ink drips into each tattoo. (so much a risk. so wild it hurts. or raw excellence.) to have mercy for self-interests to create trauma with nothing but history to explain its root. as never a regret, fermenting such ruins, where essence becomes dark dejection.
we imagine as children
such picturesque sceneries so much glory as to awaken to our own palms. we need
statuesque humans or fair souls to sudden into an avalanche. life seems sweet
those lower chakras there’s not much to negotiate. as one creates their destiny
so alive a given moment or so deceased anything sounds pleasant. where we stand
disgraced or discouraged as partly devastated. so rich in materials such a
divine manifesto or so crooked it doesn’t matter anymore. our eyes so bulbous
our beliefs so unsteady our double-standards quite heinous. to expect devotion
to demand love while behavior says—we have no respect for us. so convinced in
ourselves, or such wilderness or winds or wrangling with emotions. to go beyond
change or to center in something unfit, where one tries harder to perfect their
artifice.
