Friday, November 6, 2020

Guilt Transmits Pride

 

I do by design such radiant love such shores outlined by rainbows. such dear frustration such raging appointment as minds flip by indecencies. those watermarks those windfalls such alienation or raw discontent. for a man to hate you by no other reason as but to hate your survival; or to sit through damages, where it was done correctly, or to complain until a person gets clearance.

as winged souls such color in us such disgust for anything siding otherwise. the anxiety of clarity those dear problems while guts are televised.

I didn’t know she was republican. I don’t know if times are democratic. it seems so unstable.

we are unaware or uncertain the winds are flustered. souls are ignited. threats are palpable. we rise to higher authority.

but over a short-ways, up those alleys or down those streets—Love is appealing or anti-me such suffocation in a scream. our muffled cries our steady appeals our alphabet seeming aloof; those cold gusts those climbing demons while allegations have become our reason for winning. our leader is our example. we do what we see. the father is uneven.             

the phantom is our cry the wraith hath cruel humor such real assessment as it speaks: “I can never lose. It’s against Christianity. If I lose, there is surefire a conspiracy—Always!”   

 

I’m so critical. I lose associates. but it never seems balanced. some people we feel. others we see. or most often, it’s a little bit of both. souls need intimacy, as not to perfect tetras, but more to control the rollercoaster exploit.

such marbled tenacity. & I could never fathom, “You must deal with me! I will not be ignored!” we play videos we cringe at emotion such deep morose rejuvenating ambition. to see it acted out to drill our guts where such becomes an ideal: a woman such a way or a Casanova or someone to give life to tiring determination.

by raven airwaves by rooms or ceilings or by crystals candles or crayons. to hide our affiliation while reasoning inside to actually suggest those deaths were circumstantial. our mind-xylophones our brains on liquor, if but to alleviate, if but for a second, the raging guilt!       

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...