Friday, February 12, 2021

Roof Watches The Sun

 

reaction to nightmarish anxiety. invisible functionality. hello hives of haven bees while surrendering to sour honey. certain by humble pie, palatial at sea surefire serenity. or we measured! 

I start to sound a way. some portrait in a museum. at consequence for acceptance. as needing to respect others or needing to grow wise or necessarily that mirror. 

I have tasted lemonade or purchased music while silent about auras. I have watched what couldn’t be pronounced, but announced nonetheless. by county fair to find clowns so close to inflection. a jar of weeds a glass of swamp while we might pride ourselves. treated a certain pain it seems relevant as to renounce such allegiance. (we judge each other. we evaluate demarcations. we give our approval. we long for clearance or we feel useless, with little understanding of others.) I have admired you, despite, a personal dilemma, I see a person struggling to save lives; so paved inside trekking unpaved terrain while working a few tried-and-true methodologies. 

our souls seem silent aside for activity while going deeper sprouts a sentence. terse boding fury as undergrowth burning in fire as to presume most wood or leaves are dry. or morose moisture so remeasured too rare to ask associates. (flippancy is easy. stringing a note is difficult. we come to sing.)

 

you have genius. I have off-putting. you performed correctly. as from days those hills or running with lullabies or tassels and gowns. streets are screaming, mostly at dissatisfaction, where souls present an unearthed intensity. you spoke clearly while reserved, another screamed and was disqualified. so ascetic those weeks such a pioneer for dieting while nibbling ice. by fortune of some beginning. or rough patches. we wouldn’t presume perfection. sometimes it’s unreal, a person as righteous, presented from every angle. to reflect. to rue angst. to need to grow into piety. but a crazed man, as to believe, we each need to feel approved of …

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...