I was lying so
sickly as asking forgiveness. too enlove to die, too mad to share, while forced
to acquiesce. they say it’s weird they ask questions to a man knowing human
instinct. so much laughter where a man feels pride while life is enjoyments. so
glass made, so anxious, her love to feel so unstable—too crazed too emphatic so
unclear & making love. to have intimacy to cry at a pillow while life needs
diligence. open me, Angst, flow with
me, Psych, so grounded it’s quite ridiculous—those films those commiserations
while it was pain with mother. the fields the hickory the whips—the cotton the
flame the barn—as crooked trying harder where it stimulates a gut; so here in
presence so deep in florescence or ravished a cut so near his membranes; but
Love was art or museum or flippant a scar & dedicated! so locked such a
picket while positive protest is met by clubs. I read Douglass. I heard its Narrative.
while I debated its outcome. to notice something grim, where oppression is
medicine, a man will try to find respective. its telephone its xylophone so
heinous while a soul is darkness. those lone jackals to sense in a second while
Love was quite intrigued; indeed, a gut man an informal man a nonconformist
man; to speak it in rawness to observe, form an opinion, so taken by something
insolent. too much, Psych, too cut, Psych, too damn near affronted, Life.
hearing it, laughing into it, or sleeping with it. a fool into it, a madman
with it, while I feel an overseer in it. to go with flame to die with honor
while nobody understood. I saw a mansion, I heard a whisper, I drew a castle.
so floaty so indebted where reality is shocked. an inner acorn a man beating
with cotton while angered it hasn’t spoken God. by fierce delight so
underground while blow-joe is hectic a nightmare!
