Saturday, June 5, 2021

Losing Self In Depiction

 

I have lost touch—with something seemingly painful—by ways of simplicity. by a calming mantra or caution of a stranger, many are heaving for properties. I can’t assert but what I experience, like knowledge of self— undiluted knowledge, becomes understanding of others. science stands aloof, or promise isn’t keen, at lenience for those thoughts. I separate laundry, aside a pool, where each thought becomes a frog—leaping into me or sprawled upon concrete where others see inactivity. too many thoughts on market too little black & white while too much grayness seems inarticulate. I have an issue probing atmosphere arriving after noon neat in a basket of Skittles. so many inconsistencies. a person will ask you to overlook them. we ask in return for promise: of light or articulate dungeons of time & space & character. I swim to us, an average anxiety, a bit more developed than those waiting. the lobby is jammed tight. the balcony is posing a problem. & the doctor is set to arrive later. so much in artistic or autistic or coughing up existence. fluids trickles or splatters many are losing their composure. a man can’t say many things, but a woman might reproach self, where others are most receptive. we know there’s a problem, a huge, mean ass elephant, so damn pink it’s nearly unsighted anguish. we pretend too much. we fail our friendships. if one is suffering, we should speak a little. it becomes pontification, unless, it comes from one instated—as to speak freely, as to dance gently, with minds accepting their position. I have said nothing, I often don’t, we’re looking for some creative techniques: like ancient apples have held haven in attempt to annihilate our perception. or pain as happiness has become terrific suffering (a deep secret). we must dislike ourselves to redeem ourselves, while leaders are most affluent. by barrows of laughter, by barren longevity, with eyes beating through lenses. too much to say too little while so little has said so much. I will walk away from one, loving as we try, so whelmed by losing inner honesty.

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...