"inescapably" poems
You really can do whatever you want, you know.
People who say that aren't just naive optimists.
However, they do leave out a very important caveat:
You really can do whatever in the world that you want...
So long as you want it MORE than anything else in the world.
Like... say you want to leave town.
Maybe you don't do it.
Maybe you sit in your office and dream about getting on a plane but you never do.
Responsibilities, money, family, friends, fear...
Excuses.
Honestly,
Excuses.
The truth that people don't like to face because it makes them uncomfortable is that if you REALLY wanted to leave town,
If you wanted that and only that,
If you wanted it more than anything else in your entire life,
You would do it.
That is the simple truth about... most impossible things.
You want it? You've got it. But you've got to be willing to give up every other thing in your entire life in pursuit of it.
You've got to know yourself well enough to know, absolutely KNOW, that this thing is what you want, what your soul craves, what your dreams revolve around.
You have got to be 100% dead SURE that what you want is what you WANT.
And if you are, if you can know that and face it and understand how selfish it might be to abandon everything else in your life for it, and if somehow it still pulls you towards it like a magnet even with all the rationality and doubt and practical thinking you can throw at it...
Then that is your purpose. Your dream. And you will have it.
That said, anyone who thinks I'm unreasonable, or silly, or naive, or wasteful for going after love...
Quite simply, I know what I want.
I know who I want.
I know what makes me happy.
And since I know it so clearly, so utterly, so inescapably, I couldn't possibly live with myself if I didn't do everything I could to have it.
And it's not an easy path, knowing what you want.
Because when the answer is no, it's no to your deepest dreams, to your heart's most aching desire.
When you have to wait, you have to wait for air to fill your lungs, you have to wait to be born.
When you lose it, you lose the sun, you lose the earth under your feet, you lose the courage to look in the mirror.
But when you have it... when you have it, you have a home.
I know what I want. I want love. I want to be happy.
I want to do what I love doing, and I want to be with who I adore.
And if I know that, and I admit that, and I put everything I can into that...
Well then,
It's not over until I breathe my last breath.
I haven't failed until I've fallen.
And I think I can live with that.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
We can remember it for you wholesale
once we clear the stage of initial erase
Sure I might lisp on a drunk night,
exasperated and claiming in collapse,
I'd rather pack rat the memories in one place
and consign my pain away to tall tales.
I'm drowned, running down wi-fi 6th street.
Printing my soles to follow my heels
as inescapably I lose track of me.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
Her folly lies in her capacity to love dangerously,
For she loves in many faces, in many words and in many tongues.
She lives inside her love, mutating her heart ever so.
Relishing, perilously, in the daze of its endangerment.
And for the fragments of her heart she is so terribly loved in return.
But only for a moment.
For she holds too much insanity in her sorrowful bones.
It infests her blue veins and plays with her hair.
It kisses her in the darkness of hidden longing,
And traces her skin with wistful desire.
Her insanity holds her to the wall and caresses her neck.
Her insanity gives her a cigarette and watches her blue smoke dance with a smile in the early morning.
Her insanity laughs with her in a melancholy haze of youthful poverty.
Her insanity holds her in his arms.
Her insanity is inescapably wistful.
It finds her in the night,
In the secret carousels of woeful nostalgia.
Her insanity has destroyed her so, and has so wickedly masked it as bliss.
She is irrevocably doomed, for she will spend her days submerged in an ocean of faces;
Hoping, so beautifully desperately,
That she will find a piece of him inside them.
-
*"Can I stay here a little longer?
I'm so happy here."*
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
You are a diamond
Shiny and bright
So appealing and desirable
So easy to adore.
You are a diamond
Superficial and cruel
So awful and wicked
So easy to loathe.
You are a diamond
Unfeeling and vain
So hard and slicing
So easy to die for.
You are a diamond
Sharp and poison
So black widow
So easy to fall for.
You are diamond
Colder than purest ice
You are a diamond
So evil and so nice.
You are a diamond
So many faces
Always working your angles
Acting transparent.
You are a diamond
So many colors
Always talking cuts
Acting strong.
You are a diamond
So many victims
Always roaming round
Acting perfect.
You are a diamond
So indifferent
Always in a bubble
Acting obnoxious.
You are a diamond
Enemy allied
You are a diamond
Always on the mind.
You are a diamond
Inescapably bound and tied
You are a diamond
Forever yet never just mine.
You are a diamond-
My diamond now.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 4:41 PM UTC
I like it here.
Damp air clinging to my skin, clinging to my clothes,
Grey skies laughing at pewter water,
Wind tossed seagulls reeling passed
Individual calls demanding attention; their joint voice hushing into the soundtrack of this place.
Buildings cluttered together for protection from blasting winter gales,
Yet all jostling for a glimpse of the harbour.
Guess in their own sleepy ways they like the thrill of danger.
Their red tiles roofs so reminiscent of Mediterranean towns,
But inescapably speak of home.
People traipse past, creating the shifting landscape of this place.
Their own lives and concerns mingling to create a vast sea of humanity,
Mirrored by the roiling sea...
Just beyond the safety of
This harbour.
This bench.
This packet of vinegar soaked chips.
I'm glad it's you here with me
Glad I can feel your soul soar with mine at the salty air and eroded stone.
Beside me
Hunched into your coat
Gazing out.
We don't touch
But I feel you there
With me.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
Unapologetically Human
I am **** on the mezzanine
facing the darkened wet road
illuminated with acrid yellow tube light
better reds and blues surround towering palm trees
wooden fingers of ancient giant hands buried below
growing leafy green nails stretching skyward
little things, orange ribbons, endless cricks and dollops
bobbles and winches
Spirits
Play among the windmills
climb to the top of trees and sing into the warm wind songs of *** and heartache
as the universe ruffles along
Dive head first into the opponents forehead
grind the sand into his flesh with ram like resolve until the skin is red,
determine to die
This life is worth proving,
the stars are worth gazing,
and this body is worth bathing in the Maui air with naked delight
The ocean calls to my heart
water is a true lover whispering, kissing
inescapably feminine
I submerge my soul in joyful waves
always the tides follow the moon
like my silly heart, eclipsing
both light both night both day
simultaneously cycling
fully the light shines and our eyes perceive shadow faces in the dark blanketed clouds
the mountain gargoyles stand as titans, forgotten creatures
shoulders and heads, waiting for the moon ball
the ocean moon, tranquil bays
the air is sweeter with you near, a distant thought
cast about the horizon, the sun melting easy golden into my dreamy eye,
bless my drunken lips
dripping doltish songs into the friendly night
Wrestling with bulls of men
we kept our shirts on this time, yet blood was drawn in the sand
we madly danced in the moonlight to clapping hands,
kicking feet and knees
the ceremonial struggle toasting the stars
bottles were shared, some puffed on cigars
Come surf with me in the morning
or anytime the sun shines
even under moonlight would I meet you and we could paddle
come fill your heart with life and lust and romantic passions idyllic as freshly fallen snow undisturbed by worldly concerns
be not abashed for this embrace is a natural wonder of the soul,
join me,
forget what words of yesterday the prophets of doom chant,
we make our own tomorrow
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
Plush beads of summer rain gently kiss the windows,
pitter pattering steadily in contrast
to the low hums and stutters
of the red coffee ***
that saves many souls
lost in a daze of former slumber;
a lengthy stretch,
she leans back against the cream,
or maybe more ivory,
sofa couch,
wiggling it up and down her frame
and in its last push
released with a crack through the tips of her toes.
scrumptious smells of eggs and breakfast meats,
brunch is always her
favorite hour,
balancing the crisp texture of toast
against the delightful spritz
of OJ,
sometimes blended with a splash of something
sparkling.
the chords and rhythms that thrummed and purred,
the puttering, the humming, the stuttering,
a baritone chuckle
escaping his smirking mouth,
the moment so inescapably
charming,
how satisfying their ritual felt.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
Reaching out for what delivers its existence
The thirsty tree extends its limbs further to the sun
An encounter craved, but still valuing its bestowment
Forever longing anxiously for that connection
The summer winds carrying this hopeful firefly
Emitting the lonely light that calls out for another
Releasing these signals in hopes of discovering you
Again a flicker and finally the mate is matched
Sprinting to the sea, the relentless river runs
Passionately carving its way through the slighted landscape
Obviously enraptured by its desirous charge
Awaiting the second its frenzied rush reaches home
Like the sun now churning our eager energy
Overthrowing senses with this rampantly raging need
Overwhelming magnetism lures us toward temptation
Inescapably mesmerized by this sensation
Profound in nature, driven by this timeless dance
Sophisticatedly conjoining into fulfillment
A base for these unbridled electrical impulses
The quintessence of our fusion now realized
We are the union of two wandering forces
Ignition progresses affectionate meditations
Quietly absorbing the synthesizing of segments
Once unrelated, now entangled eternally
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC
I wanted to see you where the years were kind,
inescapably etched and displayed like
smooth stones spread out on velvet;
but I wouldn't ask. I rummaged through zippers
and heavy things.
On a cool summer night we heard a hiss of
broken stars across the desert sky
and looked up in time to see one pass over head
like a science fiction rocket ship.
It was a moment with you I will never forget.
It's funny how things are settled or settling
and divided by extremes,
jealousy - anger - hurt - houses -
etched stones - broken stars,
stuff you can't find words for,
stuff you wish you'd written down,
words that end up on gravestones.
So leave me with my imagination and your beauty,
maybe some nostalgia as my muse, add one more thing
for sure, make my children our children
not half - me - half - devil - children
and maybe I wouldn't have to run,
wouldn't have to start a war.
Maybe I could be happy without
your etched stones.
Maybe all I really need is a broken star.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
i. you will miss him in drizzles and monsoons, in swells and tsunamis. you will listen to his favorite song for hours; it will hit you every unexpected moment. it will hurt, stab, ache, and you will suppress constant screams with strained lips.
ii. you will collect everything he gave to you and wonder if it is dimensionally real. you will sleep in his shirts, retaste saltwater kisses, and reread conversations as if there's something you missed the previous thirty times. absence does not make the heart grow fonder; it rips it apart and you cannot stitch the ragged halves with no thread.
iii. you will feel his touch presently in everything you do. it will be soft and cruelly comforting. it will constantly and inescapably linger. it will haunt you in early rainy mornings and dark lonely evenings.
iv. you will read endless musings on love and philosophy. you will entirely understand foucault's prison. you will live in steinbeck's tide pools and stars, and relate to simon bolivar trapped in his labyrinth. you will wonder why everything is like this, ugly and broken (and also if you are becoming delusional).
v. you will drink tea that scalds your tongue and stand outside on freezing nights, numb and overfeeling at the same time. you will ask the silent moon a thousand questions. you will see him and blink, head swimming, heart pounding in surges. the stars will wink and the wind will mock you.
vi. you will have blissful afternoons you forget and sorrowful nights you remember. it will still consume you in bouts, devour you in spells. nighttime will become both your enemy and remedy: it will wickedly remind you, yet help you heal.
vii. you will try and fail to make sense of him (and the universe in general). you will grapple with reality and yourself. perhaps you will never know why he stopped loving you: you will keep wondering how some things can just be left broken.
iix. slowly, slowly, you will sprout on your own; you will be tender and nearly whole. most importantly, you will realize his love brought you an entirely different kind of happiness.
ix. you will stop worrying and trying to piece together an empty puzzle. even the deepest scars find their way of fading. your mom was right: stop picking at the scab and your wound will heal.
x. you will learn to love yourself in ways he never could have loved you.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
because love when cut,
lets loose
an empire of blood:
i have in my lips,
a treaty of oblivion—
releasing an embittered lemon.
in the throne of the sea,
waves repeat the crash
of perfidy.
by the mountains they ride,
the thick air of strobe.
rocks receive the genital fire
of lighthouses
exposing intones of shadow
one by one.
the beast maimed
behind the zither of trees
makes no sound like
an aleph.
i herald the collusion of night
and children
and weep at the solicitude of mothers,
because pines swoon in the dark
and with its hand, the gentlest war
threshes the flesh and blood,
raining on us forever.
hostile eyes bypass the silence of things
and lovers closing doors repeatedly,
disrupting the vale from its slumber.
it is because when love is let loose,
it releases both of us — weary, inescapably ripe with the wind, looking
for each other as doves do in flight,
separate and obscured, opening gates;
nightfall:
the savage aroma of wood
on the leaves that sway fervently
tippling away from boughs.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 4:32 AM UTC
It was Winter and I was lost
Though I refused to acknowledge it
Somewhere deep down inside of me I so desperately wanted to unleash myself and bloom into something beautiful
But I didn't know which way was up
So I waited in the cold and bitter ground for my time to come
Long and patiently
Then came the Spring and I smiled and started to grow and flourish
I was finding my way again
Still, not knowing what would blossom
Only hoping it would be something lovely
I was still the only flower in the garden bed
Lonely and desiccated
Waiting for the rain to build me up
The Spring continued on and I grew stronger and stronger
Gaining warmth and wisdom until I unmistakably blossomed into something so pure and whole and beautiful that I could hardly recognize myself
Summer came and I grew tall and strong and loud
My petals became unruly and grew uncontrollably
But the air was heavy and strange
I couldn't tell if I liked the heat
I missed the rain
I was inescapably embedded into the dry and hot earth below me
My roots reached out and grew in deep and strong
But when the birds and the bees would come to visit me
Kissing my face and whispering small and sweet melodies into my ears
I longed for them to take me away with a heavy hold and a strong grip
The Summer was a long one
Too long
I grew wild and my structure became bent and my petals started to wilt
How strange it is to me that now that Autumn has come I feel so new and pure
Because in reality, I am slowly dying in Autumn's crisp caress
But in my heart I am lovely and delicate and prosperous
I am my strongest and most beautiful at what should be my most fearful time to come
For my death is awaiting me
It is certain that I will continue to wilt as Winter slowly arrives and the Fall gently retreats
But when Winter's frozen and lonesome grip swallows me whole, what will become of me?
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
recipes and bookmarks
in strawberry are falling,
stains upon my fingertips
grasp colourblind for
reds and yellows and pinks
and all they find is dust,
people, just falling away,
crumbling inescapably,
coming apart in my hands, just
cracking, like mirrors,
and all they do is stare,
stare straight at me as they
dissolve like sugar. they don't
stay together, no matter
how much I want them to.
people cannot stay together.
it seems that we're all breaking
at different speeds, and I might
be broken tomorrow, and he
could be next week, and her,
just dust in the cracks, human
skin in the still air, floating
aimlessly until we're
****** up by the hoover
and quietly disposed of.
May 20, 2022
May 20, 2022 at 8:08 PM UTC
Because regardless if you ever loved me
we both know you still feel my mouth
on the very edges of your skin,
and is it not news that she can taste my name
on the pieces of your exposed flesh
you haphazardly place so heavily beneath her.
I am burned so inescapably apparent
like silver scars that beg for invisibility.
I have kissed you deep with these malicious lips,
and left your blood tinged with toxic venoms
that you are so desperate to water-down,
to erase, to pretend as if they never seared
the guarded walls of your insecurity;
but don't let me brandish my own wounds
as though they somehow belong to you.
And I might not have ever meant I loved you,
but I can still feel the exact moment
it could have possibly been conceived
and the way the currents kept back
the aching light of truth that lay so calmly over
you and I, you and I,
you and I were never meant to be;
we just happened.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
. I was born with a defect.
It has a great impact.
One testacle, one less
Than everyone else.
I can't tell my partner.
She'll think less of me then.
Aren't they supposed to be a symbol
Of manliness? One less thimble
Of mass, results in a loss
Of ounces of courage,
And a weight of tonnes
On my shoulders.
I've been led into
Believing manhood is paramount.
Without it, I'm less of a person,
Less of a reason
To be whom I should; to be desired.
It's hard to stop thinking it
When it's you yourself telling it.
External influences become internal doctrine.
Inescapably real, incessantly there.
Loss of masculinity,
Yet retaining functionality.
It seems people never notice something's wrong
As long as you appear to act 'normally'.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
step one: you must realize that
villains are the protagonists of their own stories;
ergo, everything does revolve around you.
you really are not worthless.
why should you care
what the people trying to overthrow you think?
step two: use your anger to create.
step three: or use it to destroy.
step four: allow yourself to feel.
allow yourself to
hide.
you are not wrong for shining in the light or for shying from it.
step five: you must realize that
this too shall pass.
in one thousand years louisiana will be underwater
and new landmasses will rise from the sea like individual venuses.
geologic time will march on, inescapably slowly, on clocks you cannot read,
regardless of you.
we are still only in the holocene era.
the universe doesn't care how many times you try;
the universe doesn't care if you try; but
someone has to, and i believe it should be you.
on the word-a-day desk calendar of existence,
humans only arrived on earth on
the last minute of december thirty-first:
whatever pain you're feeling is temporary.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
For a year I had a folder in my computer called "hey dad". I used to take photos of myself when I had been crying really badly. I wanted to see if the sadness would show up in my face. I wanted someone to see it. I didn't know why I did it. But I think it's because you were never there to see me cry. I think it's because if it reached a breaking point where I wanted to bombard you with how much I'd suffered and struggled and you'd hit back with telling me it wasn't true I'd send you those photos. Their dates extending across a whole year. Me wearing different clothes, different hair, but each one a picture of anguish, I wanted you to be confronted with it inescapably. But then I felt like you wouldn't want that, so I deleted it.
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
The Muslim woman is perhaps
the most enticing female on the planet
with her hijab (head covering)
her burqa (outer garment enveloping most of her body)
her niqa (total veil)
Such strict apparel floods our mind with curiosity and fantasies about what is so hidden
Hence the covered Muslim woman is a reenactment of every woman's beauty, power and numinosity
a veiled vision that inscribes itself across our mind
and inescapably through our libido
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC
earbuds buzz,
indic of incoming friendly fire,
another love song,
hardly differing,
what’s the big deal?
uh oh, oh no,
only transformered into an ****** boy soon
to be out loud squealing
for that’s not the way a poet’s brain operates,
a surgical insertion of a poetic inquiry brings a repetitive inquisition's painful honesty
and a new commitment commission now inescapably upfront~facing
even for the
low priestly devotee of
only
love
poetry!
Has anyone ever said to you
I want to hold you forever?
Have you ever told anyone
I want to hold you forever?
oh my god!
*the brain is racked, a fav torture of the self-
inquisitors, more awful than version physical,
my balance disturbed, my soul perturbed,
which the greater, my enabled loss or
my failure?*
*for a detailed search of history personnelle
(of course! it is a feminine noun)
registers no results, given or received,
the hurt of the how, can it be, OLP never
uttered this most greatest
declaration of love?*
and then/there, by the River East, a most public place, old man is seen uncontrollably
weeping, a non-gendered English verb,
reported the New York Post
tabloid newspaper
small thanks, photo had my back bent,
my face remained hidden, but revealed agony
of the twisted prostrate figure leaning over
the railing as he rails like an exile
or a hostage
*and there’s no answer forthcoming, no coverup, just an existential howling in
recognition that the opportunity has likely
disappeared, and the sky answers not
when begged*
***why me, why me, for the silence
is answer enough, never was I willing to
raise the gate protective, high enough to
stand before another, unclothed and
impurities revealed
surrender myself to accept or
give out or give in to
that most
wonderful risk***
and the weeping
doesn’t cease,
it is doesn’t soothe
or ease,
for the division’s remainder
remains less than a
whole integer
how can I call myself,
only a love poet?
and I answer
my self
with a teary silence
of an unanswered
curse
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 7:28 AM UTC
Your love is sweeter.
It falls as dew drops
Blanketing the earth,
Covered with jewels
Glimmering in the sun,
Crowned by your diadems,
Made greater by your love,
We lay in this sun-splashed meadow as one.
The wind kisses my face,
Caresses my skin.
You meet my gaze and
I look into the sea-green depths,
Holding mysteries contained and unrevealed.
Hesitant, you reach out to me,
Breaching the distance
Your hand rests on my cheek.
By one touch, these seas spill forth in unrelenting passion,
Blissfully lost to you I am.
Your every movement selfless, beautiful.
The sun, eclipsed by your presence, shines no more
Giving way to the night.
The stars awake and I look to the once blue sky,
Still cloudless, these stars shine bright.
Here alone with you, your love consumes me.
I am lost in you, to you, inescapably.
Anything, everything outside of you dissipates, evaporates.
In this meadow our hands entwined, unbreakable
This union sacred, divine, irreplaceable.
Nights, days, weeks, months, years, I pass with you;
Never was there a love more true.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 6:40 PM UTC
There’s something about the harmonica that gets me every time.
Maybe, it’s the simplicity.
Maybe, it’s the rhythm and blurred notes that form a hazy melody.
Maybe, it’s the whistling of inherent sadness.
But for me, it touches something deeper.
Some intrinsic instinct that connects music to our souls.
To me, the harmonica is a promise.
A promise that anybody can learn something new and can make a little dent of a sound in this big universe.
A promise that there is a whole world out there to see. Small hands, big hands, blue or wrinkled hands can play the harmonica.
No matter where you are in your journey, the harmonica will always sound inescapably like a harmonica.
Maybe that shiny, metal box is just the kind of pocket-sized assurance I need.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:03 PM UTC
Poems
1706 published / 43 drafts / 14 hidden
no matter how much spillage of
inspired words are perspired
into poetic
existence,
new ideas push themselves
to the top of the line,
with every eyelash
flutter to falling,
so there seems
always a restless but consistent cohort of
43 draftees
in my lipstadt persona
(one among so many)
inescapably
demanding,
like a dentist happiest
when commencing to
drill you in to submission
but smiling since
the novocaine
hasn’t fully…
that when
a poem,
even a new tooth
is c r e a t ed
in the gum of you,
seed~ed but not fully form~ed,
somehow
a new title is
auto~entitled,
whisked into
a never cold cup of
“what’s next.”
a laundry line
of the great
washed
but needy
for drying out,
not yet ready
for prime time
thus this
never endingness
is one more
perpetual eternal,
a cousin to
gravity
a direct order to be
born/resolved/loved/
only to be sent away
with a firm loving
push
with
no word of
farewell
(and not forgetting
to mention the thousand
of half breeds,
started, left
writ incomplete,
in my official
cemetery
a/ka
my actual draft file)
Sep 18, 2024
Sep 18, 2024 at 1:11 PM UTC
every fight
every intention
collaps
inevitably you
as flush in my mind
no relief from you
not the evening
my free thoughts
to wander in the dark
run to you
not the night
in flights of my unconscious
I drown in your arms
not the morning light
my eyes closed
my heart awake
every single weak heartbeat
is consumed in you
inescapably you
tangled
to me
your thick scent
gelatinous shell of every atom of me
obsession
passion
pain
persistent hum
every fight
every intention
drown
surely you
sweet poison
poignant languor
eager anticipation
of an instant
of authentic
essential
abandonment
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 7:48 AM UTC
I often wonder
as the night
closes in and
so do the walls
around my mind
I wonder when
it happened in
human evolution
that we would
become inescapably
immobilised by
the hands of a
clock
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
Who am I
but what I am?
Not quite just
a simple inquiry.
So please reply
distinctly specific
while abandoning logic
Yet please most
definitely clearly.
When am I
but where I am?
A notorious
questioning query.
Quietly sneering,
laughing, awaiting
the one obvious
reasonable answer.
Why am I?
Put surely, not simply.
Only to be?
A rhyming riddle
playing a crescendo
cadence of rebellious
Rock 'n Jazz
and Reggae rhythms?
Yes and still no
but much, doubtlessly,
even much more.
A man is to live!
Truly, inescapably,
always, yet certainly,
only nothing
but far beyond
day to day.
-R.
(06)
-TX
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC