My soul is wavering on my form. Fit to boil.
This soul simmering, on leaf silhouted sun's heat.
A past night's sleep that caught an errant plight amongst twilight's cloud topped 'delight'.
A dream to be clear, the one's to wake up, as told at beginning.
I dont quite translate well what it is I am trying to say, without my painted words. But I will try to do so without a sense of denying dignity.
I feel this seed planted in self-denial that I question who planted, but know who watered.
I am relieved from you.
I may have your voice in my head that I call my dreaded disease.
But I am relieved from you.
You fueled all of my seeds, the passion grew anew from you.
You mused me.
Amusing to say now, at the least, that you still had to abuse me through the
wicked lines I'd find, that you'd only
deny,
all in my stifled cries, painful times, wicked loaded lies, and all of accord to your  so  called, caring crimes.
Do not worry too much.
The amount of pain is nothing new. And nothing short.
You just, if I may: childlishly, scratch at the wavering clouds of my soul,
wilting away the pedals of the light of the sun that the steam catches in golden brilliance watching delightfully as it falls and disintegrates in a puff plume to dust.
My reality falters to a closer gross sum.
Each fleck of life you pick off me fills my seeds with even more anguish.
I am at peace.
Calm.
I know your process all too well.
I refuse to look.