sore
violet pearls or minds in eyes so coarse with ourselves. I had hated me, some
dear dysfunction, it took time to love me. I gave off an aura some deep
dejection so abject with pity. I lived like a parable, so stern in face, I still
feel military senses. Love was soft, so weakened by roots, family, or interior.
I would strew discord, or drool over sorrows, at music in soul—yearning for an
invisible person. so indelicate or inadequate where it was self-projection. to
see myself became addictive. to know more self-knowledge becomes knowing you.
or to scream into a pillow would draw facets. so untold to you, so dismissed by
you, while I never should expect receptivity. but a person is an ornament or an
heirloom or an antique genetic. a person is a miracle a dream if but to
maintain passion. it becomes key, such root-bone, if but to seduce by shivers.
limits are reduced. people grow into arms. I’ll do anything to feel you. some
compartment inside, fraught by inertia, while I need you to understand. it will
rise again it will fall again some are interested in evenness.
by sad amore or
chains or feathers—as we glide or float or dream—to live forever in memories,
to know connectivity, which has become an axiom. such stone prints our hieroglyphics
so casual about rumination. souls are trying if but to fly, and cessation just
means by rudiments. our chilled souls our warm affectation so close it feels
like miles away. by beauty we seize by life in wattage or mourning in voltage.
so much acumen so sharp so fretted—to have died before to have come back, such
familiar sentience – in its unconsciousness. to weave you to enter you to know
we stand so connected – in a disconnected sense. too much to argue too much to
scream, it’s life with our selfishness. or to ask for unlimited love, while so
slanted, as to expect utter passion. so much a darkness there, albeit, an
attraction, while true love begins to feel elastic. more want from others than
demands on self where it becomes too much paradox.
