I found my soul. it seemed battered. so torn inside. by will to live by light-castle so aglow they made me. to induce insanity, by purposed assault, to then claim something is wrong. so documented. it sounds grandiose. so underappreciated. it’s nothing new albeit cultic while it comes from Ethiopia. a genetic in spirit, a conglomerate of transmitters, while a mixture of psychologies.
far into fire aflame at our gates arguing for clarity. so left behind, indeed, a feeling, they seemed angry when I arrived.
I see faces some unfriendly some too eager. (so close too dangerous, where everyone is laughing, including its target. no one achieved excellence most were mediocre, but gods know, most were having sex; some incredible activity as all is relational, where all is spectacular.) such a blessing to have an unspoiled apple while most wrestle with goodness.
it feels younger to dispute things. behavior remains by sameness. or no one feels responsible. to abide by a contract, as alone by endeavor, where others are by flutes or rooms plus fruits. to shun decency while feeling convicted where a good story serves as bait. so painful, as to witness misuse, where a victim is proud. I re-found my soul. it was at a lost-&-found. it felt mistreated.
like a toehold or a sky-glove such monopoly on dishonesty. a child might not sing, but late in life, deeply unavailable. I can’t re-soul souls or awaken instincts while a smarter woman watches patterns. if but a sailing song, if but Sexton wits, while we must be careful!
I was lonely. ironic to hit Beverly
Hills. I saw spatial beauty. such an unfair word, it denotes privilege, while,
nonetheless, we employ it. magazine woman. so much unexplained. too removed to
be so intimate. it comes in moments, it chills on ice, it takes a line for
clarity. a manic man a difficult excursion, those bold brilliant bashful eyes.
so wild so naked while it means so little. great fatigue. bones aching. feeling
un-cursed. to hear it plainly, a grip differs, while most do their best.
falling feelings feral flame as framed in fury! a soldier of passion even a
Paris soul while most try communication. yes. show me instead of telling me—this
becomes old adage. or touch me, deep inside, show me I need you!
un-angry anger. murky clarity. and
if I see us two days a week, it might feel perfect. I seek guileless not unhuman.
it’s complicated in a sense. while
reasoning, for women, becomes powerful—for men, it becomes challenging. a dear
unveiling a dearer understanding, when pitted for survival, morals become mute
discussion.
