often,
time is still. moments are avalanches. seconds are monsters. no way to decipher
no plot of origin just pure uneasiness.
like
trained serenity we dissemble as to hide truer feelings.
a
man isn’t himself. absorbed by fuscous landmines. with turquoise laughing at
us.
syrup
in bone or marrow in spirit—so much displeasure.
it
was different for most by way of unevenness as science didn’t decode it: moons
were bluish or sunshine was pink or luster seemed mundane.
like
pieces of myself made debris while I chase to gather my parts. made aquiver
petting famed infatuation with souls dragging inelegance. seeming hostile or naïve
or stern—a gift those years so many pegs, they get to pass with pains left
teetering.
it’s
life’s beiges or horizon desert such mirages for a lonely man.
we
might sense a cutaway. some indelible illusion. if trying to un-taste …
metallic pills or poisonous boxes assumed we never fought harder. by some type
puppetry as demanding compliance where we never granted permission.
but
it gets into where it lives to erupt in such present silence. we never know
ourselves we barely play niceties or what we know seems militant … or another
extreme, a nice man suffers, an angry man dies, there isn’t much in between. a
bit gaunt wrestling with symbols as much means living. our modalities our
charms—what might they suggest?
essence
might appear a drink might help or help in drowning. mood disorders. that seems
unfair. for none have met one unaffected.
irritability
… for no sound reason … or a sense of laziness.
struggling
ups-and-downs, such kerosene dimensions, so flammable inside. mental studios or
photo music on repeat, those times so involved it feels like fantasia.
many
need psychotherapy ... some person to point out paradoxes … someone to ask
about those feelings.
so lethargic
or at ease where some frame unravels into dystopia. a battle inside a machine
in mind such aphasia at critical junctures.
but
what is left aside for medication in a world needing to be seen a certain
light?
