Here we are, then, standing steadfast with His reaction, redirecting His energy, instead, it might seem, of dumping it, and taking in, then, an adulterated stream. Well, i feel a little desire—it comes with the frustrations of understanding mathematics; but, to be sure, i don’t know what my true love looks like, and, therefore, I can’t exactly unload
All i know, at this time, is that, in this life, we are separated—indeed, we live, for now, separate lives . . . don’t i torture myself to think that she might love somebody else? That wouldn’t necessarily be the case—i’m too hard on her, especially, considering, this life is a disgrace—hardly the civilization that I would associate myself with.
Well, i won’t fight any wars—we stop things, now, before they get to that point—or, that is, we do in heaven and, well, so many years from now. So you might say that I’ve lost my edge, and I claim, instead, that you’re confusing me with you—a man, i think, that lives on the agony of others - no one special to me: the person you love is the person you hate i won’t live like that, forcing His hand
Giving up this love for the life i dismiss far too complicated and meaningless. thinking, in that state, that i’m not, in effect, dumping my back—when the hate seeps in, you’re fighting it . . . on to a mild anxiety, a low burning flame—as opposed to bilateral swings, regurgitating the shit he brings and trying, after that, to deny my place
well i know that i must humble myself before God. I must rededicate myself to walking, in style, this marathon; it leads, doesn’t it, to peace and security, which, in and of itself, makes room for His happiness - becoming like Him is the ultimate goal, setting my sights on the skies that de-termine my life—to get here, happily, a little at a time
that’s the meaning, isn’t it, of this existence? to embody the laws of creation—constructing, something, that, all the while, both poses and answers the next question? No end in sight—and, that, isn’t it, is actually the dream, my mistake being—trying to get to heaven without defining it here, summing, for everyone, my eternal sphere?
so look, youngblood, to the life we resist,
anxious, as ever, to please someone new,
when, of all things, its time to cease and desist,
trying to fast track my lovelorn transition
since, in all honesty, we live like a slave,
doubting our faith—which makes us lonely,
when, in fact, we’re the company we crave,
giving up the tail that we’ll never foresee
needing, then, to cultivate His relief,
but, to be fair, I’ll define what i see—
strip away your faith and all His belief
nothing left, then, but what we cannot be
a lonesome traveler looking for home
living for the company that i love . . .
got to prove my worth in the world i roam,
avoiding the agony i bait thereof
well, i feel, don’t i, that i’m coming down—
falling out of love—nobody around:
well, my colleague cannot take me to town
raising a ruckus and going to ground
there’s no fucking spark like there would be
if, that is, i loved the object of my eye,
a substitute for the love i’d feel if, gee,
this life was for real—no need to die
making what’s sorry a little sorrowful
feeling bad, in part, just because of that . . .
letting down the candidate that i cull,
coming to terms with isolation and fat
getting older, dear friend, as we diverge
well i can’t help what i’m attracted to,
a love for blue eyes that would converge
if i was writing, dear heart, for what i purge
the present moment and what i despise
tired of people asking for money
that never, and maybe never will, arise
considering the next best century
don’t know why i’m so disappointed
there are worse things than loving a blond
(as opposed to what others would foresee,
imagining a future that they’d abscond)
a tale of darkness . . . running on empty,
trying to convince myself to love what i
don’t—at least, that is, not anymore:
living on smoke and His poisoned eye
turning what i worship to what i deplore