It means so much, only when hushed, pushing through
indifference. A man sees differently, somewhat exiled from self, to agree with
something reprehensible. On another note, looking for freedom, aggravated over
essence, remembering she looked so innocent. Upon a wing, if not a prayer, to
desire something humans can’t give. A blatant element in pain—looking as she
walks by, thrown into my existential. Minor setbacks, seething inside, still
composed—of weather and earth, a curse to drink, a problem to remain forever
sober. Everything is now on record, any jot, any note, any sentence. If entertained,
reduced to a carnival, of course, it remains justified, simply put, “Because I wanted
to.” I reminisce on a spell, a fair person, a dream I saw, a dream I remembered—with
science seeming impeccable. On another note, Love is sexy, Love is smart, some
have had her heart; this ain’t living. Fluttering. Gold bracelets. A symbol
upon flesh. Many are so cursed, so smart, to have lied into a lie holding
weather. I flee the Ghosts—I irk the beginning—I know I must die. On to the
metaphysical: so ontological, a big ass word, concerned with existence, the
measure of my life! There remains nonsense.
I wore a wig. I feigned a smile. I was dirt in her honor. And she allowed
it. Siren beautiful snakes; if to
adore a person, as to give a person life, does it fortify integrity? On another
note; I sense ignorance, I die to become, emotion is acrobatic—like thieves in
essence. I can’t escape it: some are ethical, living a strict code, dying at
every entrance; some straddle the fence, either this or that, but never too
holy; others are sick, needing help, to speak in presence, is to hear something
too raw to digest. This means nothing. It will never win a prize. Nevertheless,
it’s interesting.
