You’re not alone, or what was said, nor the punishment
from mother. You’re more than voice, narration, and career. I lie to myself, in
rows, trying to capture something authentic—upon laundry, iniquity, arises a
beautiful dream, lightning and thunder, pain inverted, so proud—it aches. You
felt/feel alone, roaming social ice, many might adore you; more might need you,
a gift on a selected day, the way we love. Or greater pure problems, traipsing pleats,
cleansing curtains—the vase made of coins, sore psychedelics, so psycho-overrated;
by root of the living, sung by father, praised by mother, to announce loving
something running westward: things we don’t know, nor see, nor care to. You’re
not undervalued, unsaturated, with time to sing your anthem. And it seems
irregular the battle to cherish, with many flailing and flogging freedom.
