what we sunrise,
albeit, vinegar, the moon appears. soft, harmful melodies—intractable
sensations, as I hate you, I adore you. forthright panic, inner assassination,
mental alienation. despite consequences, as unable to break free, with one
calling it clownwork. to have died in utterance—of a sea inside—so much it’s
hard to drown. head above water, swimming frantically, sharks surrounding the
location.
what is your history?
what map do you use? are you solid?
by inner
government. by survival of the fittest. by spirit-computer. soft data, interior cascades,
wilderness in beauty. so little control, easily persuaded, to turn on another
because it was easy. sheer nature. sheer power. we get what we invest, often,
even more.
too much social
media. a man is a piranha. no greater reason than thought boxes. some video on
replay. a corner in a cedarchest. we do things to ourselves.
try to mirror a
man running from injustice, enslaved by his tendencies; his will in horrors,
his sympathies in chains, in a way anger sprouts.
try to look at a
soul meaning you terror with demons in his eyes. smiling like harmony, reaching
like be careful, attempting to get closer. affronted by coldness, angered for
he is visible, yearning for an opportunity—on any level. yes. each person is
deadly or a joke or in between. most play it by ear. many have agendas. more
would use, abuse, then shake you. it angers when cul-de-sacs appear—no one is
answering—the fire department is not responding. he is mental physics. a disappearing
soul. he is metaphysics. we use
it like manipulation, if to score some gem, while afraid of billion-dollar
souls. if a camera on us. if to
hear our voicebox(s). if to see no one is truly taking the hook. in all our
glory, with grandiose minds, years are passing in dusk. I sound harsh. I try to reach. if but
to clear a path for something spectacular.
more to freedom,
in her mystery, with a soul mistreating your sexuality.
