The obsession offers pensive aggression; in turn to do.Here is the quota for the plenty: here is to kicking out of time after the spoils are left in path. It doesn’t matter. Oh, you matter, you wouldn’t believe how much; but I feel the hard distinguishable feature and it does not bring what is needed. To rest assure my own entirety, those silent strings will echo as the fingers snap and make motion; after this. I can hum the melody. This instrument is not necessary to convey the simple notion of my origin of this as of yet uncompleted song.
I don’t know what to say to you or what to put in words or whys.
I could enterprise my stories and they would come alive; they come alive.
But I want to create ease. Yesterday I wanted to challenge; fighting the oppressor of us all. In return, I found the pain of plight.
Tomorrow I cannot say where my attention should be only that it is overwhelming and I’m working to purification as an excuse to strip away the agony of hurt till I’m 8 years old again.
Something will surely come of it. Yes, something.
I will be puny at moments and thusly all of its mass and some. Still, it is not me nor any longer. Just as soon as I complete the next word it will change and be eerily similar and I will feel deterred and requited, finding resolution in hand, and then I’m clueless to the origins.
This is another fatality she said: my head is a hospital and the staff is scarce. My thoughts are in line wounded, waiting, waning, fading in uncomfortable chairs; unattended to, at least until the day shift returns and these thoughts find bearing to assistance.
N.A.R FEB 2008