The heart of people
   It’s not an ideal
  No single concept can encompass it
  Reflecting patterns
   Yet defying yr notion of a set rhythm
    Lifting spirits, shattering planets
It will destroy yr life
         -How it’s perceived at least
      Our perceive, can’t be made to believe
         In fully
              Or bully serendipity
Flashing clips to form into structure
       Basic survivals
         Adverse to that can be Her Glory
           Nature
     Because the strive can equate to
          Be alive, not think it

Existence does not withhold It’s Will for ‘supposed to‘s.

I am a beast
                         A child of darkness
I exist in multiple realities
    
        It cannot be helped

in a sense we're just a present tense expulsion
Refuting the rhythms, playing escapism
     Thr'out's weaving flawless textures
       Mapping exact, luminous essence of gold

Purity reign,
                        process.
                         ­           symbol.
                                              ­inferred.

--So it's like, no matter whom or what, we happen upon is a reference and different aspect of yrself, having its own experience. Trying to figure out certain levels of understanding, depending on their function of balance.

                  That's a mighty sweater
                    to be displaying on that pop-up ad.
              And it's a ****** shame, somethings
                      even have to be mentioned

Sensations can be such a funny happening
              Extractions expelling
          Sorting and blend with memory
       Distorting to mythological understandings
    In a very broad way

  It was as if he was me
From a time not of this forming
   But theoretically so is everything else
And negation as well, needless to say
Playing around with the scriptures
              Trash piles up
  But it seems cultured enough
       And love it, let you be each-
    We’re all alive
       Crawling around eachother
             Just splendid.

When does, it but,
                when do happen
and what’s the formal order
I seem to forget frequently
about which Pork comes before which.

              I can’t seem to get this set, I guess

Upon a smooth, wooden ship
    Crossing many sorteds,
Playing with air flows and spectres of Fates’
             We linger, in a withheld suspense

    In rebellion of our empathy
Idolize tyrants for their fruiting audacities
       Comical dialogues
                       form heart soothing canon

     Squalls and all that other sea-legged rhetoric
             To be that proper link in a sense
Cheers to that me boi..

But will that be the better
           For the seeping synchronicities
     Swinging their hips

This rusty mesh wires gate
    Spreading into other focuses
Dreaming of subtle symbols
Excreting lovely notions
      Kind of float in my own stumble
  Exciting to see what’s next
I get scared and retreat sometimes
  But we all need sanctuary
                            from self image sometimes
       So what will this  stroll come to?
  And mostly it’s sorted ideas,
Fleeting fantasies,
              A whole lot of trying to think or do
Or something
   Forgetting is part of this process too
But I’ll stop to capture the moment
             The way the sun melted into
    Kind of fruity textures contemplating
        Lonely, but pure

The self-pitying poor me’s
That restless selfish agenda
Spreader spoiled butter
                              on a fine piece of toast
The boastful explanation
                            on a beautiful landscape
It needs no explaining
And interpretations are
subjective speculations only
Nothing of a permanent fixture
As is with a and the cycle proceeds
My feeding seems undone and useless
Fits feel necessary but I don’t have the space
And never will because
Excuses are easy to come by
What’s the point anyway?
The anointing paradoxes
all lead to the same Sufferings
Opening my arms to embrace it
But nearly everytime
The struggle’s met with more of the same
The fight in a boxful of mirrors
All showing those beautiful flaws
Of which I’d rather frown at,
                      than spring a chuckle
And I am a cuckold in all this
Because I grasp the branch
                  while being pulled in a current
Instead of letting the river release me

All that I believe is a cease
To be. I’m wrong and roam away
Freeing, in shambles, preambles of stay
Stagnant condition a rabid position