Wednesday, December 16, 2020

Used to be a Grasshopper

 

the housekeeper found me. I was curled in a knot. I felt humiliated. it seemed inevitable our contradiction our lives crossing at an impasse. dungeon blues or engines so cursed it seems normal. to give him life as a need to feel needed while never equipped to guarantee success. grounded glass or white pebbles or bags filled with twenties. if to hate anything in which it contends—while life is meant for sky crafting. the sin of its beliefs those intrusions meant for harm while a complex meets with everyone depicting game … for we need praise we need ostracism, only if we haven’t learned humility. some fancy name some prison element some waltz down roads in blood. a hit of terrific an imbalance in chills such rough beginnings; to remember momma to sense father or to entertain grandma. the pain of its coarseness those railings in anguish while a child soaks up something irregular. he speaks loudly he lives certainties while ignorance is never on radar. so different from others, it stands out, where they must be irregular.

I heard her voice it was late into dreams closer to screaming at myself. sore predicament or human travesty while escaping is a project. a person meets someone, that someone tells his story, that becomes a reason to tug at wires. a person would leave—as somewhat distorted—another in a spatial coma. pain as a landmark or trauma as a marksman while running becomes meeting self; such plurality such negotiation while sanity becomes bias. to never respect position, to weep over a mango, while pictures assail someone claiming indifference. such contradiction, to wail out yelling, as to confuse some part in self. I heard her voice, while it bemoaned about anything in an innocent box; such stinky socks those miles in sweat while someone meant to execute distraction; such topaz sorrow, such mineral passion at gates or curbs debating dissatisfaction. as we adhere to some simple thought—most are either featured in it or exhausted by it. the psychopath demented the sociopath gregarious or both so raw it’s pure elevation.

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...