I need to surrender more. Sadness is a sign.
It seems to me—life is temperaments.
Rain pouring inside, on a sunny day, glitter and darkness.
I dropped it off. It keeps chasing.
Most feel we belong somewhere else, unable to point at a destination.
Everyone is shunning existence, desiring existence, if to suggest—this is life!
I’d rather fail, miserably in love, than feel miserably unyoked.
Life is riches, ecstatic passion, wines and moons, gray clouds, formidable faces—
The furthest space, a world cold and warm, taking essence made green; to know one sees, to imagine—it means so little—realizing something essential is being destroyed, as to go on forever; indeed, otherwise, something found is lost, something lost is debased, with family drifting away.
We take to situation, comfortable it will be sameness, bent on a scar, placating a phantom; the blood is blue, the tendency is aching, a dream upon vengeance.
No one sees it. It just lives—as a big ass elephant, and God let’s you carry it.
Sorrow upon a countertop, a quilt made of imaginary reality, someone meaning you the curse, while preaching love, to hate another for consistency; and your eyes have melted deeper ice lands; and your pain has traveled inlet Islands.
