Many artists create for approval, to translate the beauty they find in the world so that others can feel what they feel (which is second hand at best), or to try to better understand the world that they are in and communicate their findings with the rest of the world. I would stand here today and say that is all meaningless to me. If one cannot find their own truths, then they do not deserve the truths that they find. Everyone can see 'the beauty of the world' that surrounds them, and far too many people try to turn their senses into tangible words on a page. What difference does it make, better yet, what difference should it make to a person if others view the world in the same light that they do? It is for this purpose that I do not view the world in any light. When I create I view the world without light. Feeling my way through the darkness trying to find something that I can hold on to. I am a horrible and pitiful creature when I search for ideas, but when I can wrap my hands around these ideas with no light shed from an outside source there is no greater sense of accomplishment. I write not about the beauty of the world, not about fantastic imageries that could be on an inspirational poster, nothing of the heavens and angels, because when I write my demons take over. Every doubt that sits in the back of my mind unanswered. Every amount of corruption that I have seen in the world. Every hope that has been shot down to crash as a fallen spaceship. Every desire that I will never see fulfilled. These are the things that give me the passion and inspiration to create. Perhaps it is for the balance of the world that I write with such things in mind. As I watch so many writers fail to create what it is that they pictured in their creative vision simply because their minds are cluttered with preconceived notions of love, of good, and of this great being that will provide them with their every desire (deliverable on death, as I have been told); I know that most will surely continue to fail. The world does not have a perfect clockwork structure that they would have everyone else see. I hope that in controlling my demons I will be able to create something that is more authentic. More pure.

Art is struggle.
Creations are covered with our sacrifices.
Without the grotesque, beauty cannot truly be seen.
Without darkness, we cannot understand light.
My cup runneth over.

Seven great inspirations
I remember being young and thinking that there was no greater goal to seek than the goal of love. I had told myself countless times that my greatest goal in life was to find someone and make them the happiest person in the world. I know now that the naivety of that statement is enough to make even the most romantic shake their heads. It was from this naivety and hope that a young man fell in love. As all things that are destined to horribly fail, it failed horribly. The joy in this young man's eyes dissipated and he was left horribly confused. How could my greatest inspiration and the goals that I had set for myself fall apart so swiftly? It was around this time that I slowly started seeing the world for what it truly was. There was great sorrow in this time, but it was a time of more beauty than I had ever known. Years that I thought were wasted were resurrected as emotions and perceptions that slowly found their way from my hand to paper. I learned from a very young age that it was proper to hide emotion, and so many of these creations were destroyed after I had pushed them from my mind. It was not until I let a few close friends read some of what I had written that I realized the value that words held. I used these words to bring happiness to others and evoke emotion where there was none before. All of the ideals and emotions that I held in high regard for so long slowly withered away. It was in this time that I slowly learned that because there was so much good that came from something so devastating, that those things I once thought were so evil may have something good to be found in them. There were great inspirations to be found in those things I had once discarded as sinful and without worth. I found beauty and inspiration in what most would call corruption and imperfect. These things, which were taught to me as sins, gave me more inspiration than any rules or restriction would ever be able to. For the first time in my life I actually felt free. It was with this newfound freedom that I was finally able to express what I truly felt without fear of guilt or punishment. My outward appearance stayed approximately the same (as I was taught that appearances were always important and some habits were hard to break), but I realized that I was a completely different person. It is these differentiations from what I considered to be the norm that allowed me to grow as a person instead of as a machine that was built by those around me. It is this facade of normality that I will forever wear as a defense mechanism to keep those as closed minded as I once was from prying. It is the sins that I once fought so hard against that would help me realize the person that I truly was. This is not merely a documentation of the things that inspire me, this is a tribute to the realizations that allowed me to grow as a person. A great deal of my writing tends to come out as metaphors, but in what will follow I will do my best to write clearly and without riddles. These are the thoughts that bring my creations to life. This is the fuel that drives a man down a road comfortably, no longer worried about speed limits or street signs. Now I will explain how these seven deadly sins breathed life into an otherwise lonely and discarded man.

Pride
Are we all not more important than everyone else in our own universe? Is there some secret kept within the recesses of our mind that perverts this self preservation into something that is frowned upon? Are we not supposed to be proud of our accomplishments? Where are the lines between what is appropriate and a horrid vanity drawn? Would we not become Lucifer if the feeble minds trapped in these mortal shells were placed in a shell more beautiful and eternal than anything we have ever seen? Are we so quick to judge those guilty of our same crimes? Tell me that if you were given the chance you would not change places with a god, and I will never believe another word that pushes its way past your lips. We are wired to attempt to gain higher standing wherever we are. When I have created something that I believe holds truth I am proud, and I am proud that I am proud. If it were not for pride where would that sense of accomplishment come from? Should I allow my pride to turn to shame, and **** a driving force to create something even better next time? I think not. In the universe of our art, we are the gods. We manipulate every word, every pixel, every stroke of the brush. We have ultimate control of the characters, the situations, the emotions, the outcomes, and do not have to provide an explanation to anyone unless we decide to. When we are done with our creations we stand back and say that they are good. A faulty attempt to turn the artist into a god, but the intentions are thinly veiled. To create and to have others look upon your creation with wonder and awe, is that not the intentions of almost all artists? What purpose does this serve other than the creation of pride? I would say that there are none. My writing is the universe where I am god, and there are none other as powerful or that have as much say as I do.

Sloth
Call me cynical for not seeing the absolute beauty of the world around me. Sloth, the great sin of sadness and despair. I look at the world and am dissatisfied with what I see. I have always been fond of Poe, because he wrote about this more than anything else. Why should I be any different than this? The only love I have ever known was ripped from my hands, and I was left with nothing but a feeling of wanting. I watch people walk by with their masks of happiness and content, and when the day is done I see these same people left shaking and world weary. How much rain should fall from my eyes before they become as black as the clouds they do their best impressions of? With every attempt to better the world thwarted on each turn, it seems as if things are not going to change. The problem with writing on the subject of sorrow is that many view it as unhealthy or look down upon it. It is only after putting words to the things that bother me that I have control over them, and can manipulate them as I wish. Sorrow and pain are less of a threat when they can be controlled. Where is it that this sorrow and despair comes from? Perhaps I read too many fairy tales as a child. Perhaps I have yet to get to the end of the story of life where the moral will be revealed to me. Perhaps it is this surreal world that I could never persuade myself to live in. A world where I am to put on a mask of happiness and pretend that everything is going just the way that it should. A world full of everything that I could ever desire. It is because I cannot alter my senses that give my perception of the world that this demon resides within me. My writing is the realization that the world is not what I was led to believe it to be. My creations are the sorrow and despair of living in an imperfect world, and wishing that it was perfect.

Gluttony
Do not overindulge in anything, not even those things which bring pleasure and have no consequence. I think this is a flawed statement at best. In my writing I discuss extraordinary circumstances or situations that I have been involved in. Many of these situations happened only in my own mind, but a number of them occurred when I overindulged in certain things and saw the world in a completely different perspective. If we all lived in perfect moderation, would the world not be boring and uninspiring? I choose to do those things that bring pleasure, and if I do them too often then the result is simply more pleasure. Gluttony is the cause of many interesting nights that allowed me to step outside of my protective shell and experience things that I would have never experienced otherwise. How could I not pay homage to such a thing? How could I desire to cease doing something that only opened my eyes? Gluttons will be looked down upon and called drunkards and addicts, but I have never met a being that has not committed gluttony at one point or another. I was once told to overindulge in moderation. Where does the line between an altered state of mind that we can learn from and a sin stand? In my creations there is no line, because there is no sin. My writings are guilt-free and full of overindulgence of thought. My words are my minds altered vision grasping for truth.

Wrath
These **** words will not flow from my mind, through my hand, and onto this god forsaken medium. What is it that I need to do to express my emotions so that others can understand them? If my words are too abstract it is only because of the thoughts and emotions that they follow. If people cannot follow my metaphors and hidden meanings then it is of no concern to me. The fact that they will not try to stimulate their intellectual ***** in order to understand something more complex than they are used to drives me insane. My pulse quickens with each thought of the issue. It is impossible that I left my metaphors too veiled or did not give enough surrounding exposition. These creations make perfect sense. Then I step back and look at the gibberish that I have created and hurl it across the room as harshly as possible. The thoughts and ideas are all here, it all makes sense in my mind, so WHY WILL THE WORDS NOT COME OUT RIGHT? The inability to explain senses or perceptions in a concrete manner that the audience will understand creates more anger in me than I will ever understand. An anger that refuses to subside. With a clenched fist the pens and pencils are broken, the keyboard is shattered, and the words are broken down into the letters that sit in a pile on my floor. My creations inspire nothing more than they inspire my hatred for ignorance. My creations are an angry conglomeration of letters wishing that they could show the emotions that inspired them. My words are children beaten for insubordination.

Greed
Greed is the greatest inspiration that most will ever know. To bathe in golden bullion and never have another care in the world. Greed not for the sake of greed, but for the sake of freedom. I am inspired by greed of a different sort. The desire to gather every idea that I can find and horde it as my own. The greed of knowledge and experience. When I was younger it was interesting to be the most mature person my age, and now that I am older it is not knowledge that is sought, but wisdom. I horde this knowledge and wisdom in my own personal compressor and squeeze them until they are in the purest possible form. It is this ink that I dip my quill into hoping that my faulty hands can transfer such a perfect concoction onto the parchment without ruining it. Without poking a hole through the parchment. Without deciding after I am finished that the words do not hold the meaning that they carry, and having to destroy everything and start over. I would gladly give all the wealth that I have to be able to sate my greed for the expression of perceptions and knowledge. These are the pains that I have endured, and they are mine and mine alone to claim. There is no greater value on this Earth in my eyes. People can have their tubs of golden bullion, and I will help them with generous contributions when able, but if they ever decide they want my words there will be war. A war of greed. A war of necessity. My creations are my glorious mansion that holds the treasures of experience and knowledge. My words are the golden bullion that so many men have fought and died for, and I will horde them until some greater force can pry them from the hands that created them.

Lust
Love is an illusion that was created for your confusion. Those that speak of love are disillusioned into believing in some extrasensory emotion that they allow to consume them. Love is the most abstract emotion or idea that anyone could ever base a creation on. I tire of reading of love at first sight, love found upon a spring morning, or love that has been discarded. These things are boring, and as long as people persist in writing on these things I will always have kindling for my fires. Tell me about something that I know. Lust is the most pure form of the idea of love that is kept in circulation for no apparent purpose, besides creating sorrow for those that cannot find something so perfect as it has been described. Lust does not mislead and has no ulterior motives. The warmth of another being pressed tightly against you in a shared ecstasy. That is all. There are no complications, there is no confusion, there are no forced rituals that you have to fake your way through to get to another goal. Has the world become so confused that it forgets its instincts. They tell me that lust is a sin, but I know very well that it has created more pleasure than any restriction I will ever be given. I have heard many times to wait for love and it will come in time, but never have I heard anyone told to wait for lust. There is something unexplainable about finding oneself in a passionate situation that they had never even thought about before the moment that it happened. It is the same way with my writing. My writing is the beautiful girl whose name I do not know, as she is leading me across the house to a more secluded place.

Envy
I was taught never to keep up with the Joneses, and I will never attempt to. I had planned to accomplish such great deeds that the Joneses would be found as a wreck of green helplessness. In my great plan I had no intention of ever envying another person. It was not until I fell in love with words that my great plan fell apart. It was these words that would be my downfall. Writers, publishers, artists, and editors all held titles that I wanted for my own. Those that were far more lucky whose works were published. We use the same letters and words, but I could never convince people to see the appeal in truth. It was when I realized this fact that I became envious. I was not envious of the titles, or of the money

Chemical diversity is the earth,
Boundless fate is a choice;
Become Mr. Nobody.

In the darkness of secrecy warmth found me,
"Forsake your ego" it said,
"Come join with me".

In the birth throes of a new year
I was struck by a sense of automania
as an amphetamine tornado's roaring gust
swept away my notions of velocity and force.
Entactus: touch within.
We overindulge, the stimulant, meta-amphetamine.

Consign your shell to be burning through darkness
and daylight, tweaking for normality to return
or to go further in; we're  stuck on spun,
Wanting to be spinning. Some things
give more than they take,
'Away' is not a place.

Its Love I'm not sure of

People and places,
Life's got its own races,
Good or bad, life gives chances,
Mine with you, never noncoincidence.

Things happen for a reason maybe,
But with time I just knew you'll be,
Something I've envisaged for thee,
A partner for who you'd be.

Many things go for a sight to heart,
Yours did for a hair at that,
My preferences subdue to that,
Yours worked on me like a ****.

I'm indulged,
I babble over thoughts of us, I overindulge,
Man up I say, as affections bulge,
To a lone night of clean "thoughts with no smudge".

Oblivious to a public scene,
I make my first words seen,
Chivalrously I ask "to be seen",
Optimistic of a positive answer forseen.

You shrunk my optimism,
Hallucinated my pessimism,
With thoughts if I'd pulled a solecism,
Thoughts that rhyme with barbarism.

A turn off? I thought less,
My heart taught me to care less,
And to mind less,
Cause you'd still "come first".

Trust your heart,
guard the parts,
It assumes the innermost thoughts of both paths,
And coerces the being to act.

You trusted your heart,
Guarded the parts,
Your were coerced to find my path,
I was happy to have you back.

It all goes good,
Feels like hunger found food,
Thoughts drain like words in a big book,
Out like a baby, 9 out of the womb.

Loves in the obscure,
Not too bright to be lured,
Maybe its too early to sense pure,
What about...we're just not sure?

Conversations glitter,
Feels better than never,
We found ourselves, 'cause we talk better,
All nights, its ours to getter.

But wait, I'd assume time rather hop's,
With that, we can account for times we never talk,
When daft blue ticks are the norm,
Emoji replies bare the nigh-dialogue.

You initially thought we had something,
I did think so too, same thing,
But we look lost, close to nothing,
Maybe we aren't doing the necessary "fighting".

For a while its lost,
We're gone, for short!
Maybe we should have taken a shot,
To keep our life span for talks not short.

But things fall apart,
Maybe only when Achibe laughs,
But life has its own true paths,
Maybe for who compulsorily have to cross paths.

Little fires spark a big flame, indeed,
Maybe we realise we both are in need,
Of each others warm needs,
Maybe were both tired of a boring deed.

Lets rekindle us. A date?
Sounds good. It definitely deserves the wait,
Love talk, you'd guess, or? lets not exaggerate,
The day schedules a good date.

Alas, she's late, but its queen,
She deserves the big scene,
With a nice dress in green,
She'll pass as my queen.

Fun food time goes quintessential,
Night time in urban city? Cinema is essential,
Got us dazzling with thoughts of us not in denial,
Possible lovers? we did the conventional.

Cozy moments, things get sweet,
You'd actually feel love's heat,
It burns, rather internally in the heart,
Its an affection you'd never want to thwart.

Trigger triggers, what's triggered?
Ardour, lust, infatuation, love fad, love, what's desired?
Passion grows for each other, both admired,
Actions? Long talks no one gets tired.

Do you call it sudden love, lust, infatuation?
The words are lost find one with a good definition,
Feels are strong and great, feels like never diminishing,
But experience says, its love I'm not sure of, finishing.

NEW YEAR
And so, a new year begins
With new determination in our endeavors
And a new array of concoctions
Which we hoped, would help our hangovers

A renewed promise for coming events
Not to overindulge in our usual sense
But display a new moderation
To avoid that yearly, consequence
BOEMS BY JA 487

Industry hides under a cunning guise
in which we are blinded
gorgonized
They certainly aren't for you and yours
priorities are set on higher scores
Lost we are
in the wake of corporate greed
in which bottom feeders
fufill and satisfy the belly of this beast
Which pumps out plastics,toxins,and pollutants
in return for our dollar
Killing mother's purity
obscene individual study proves to be
and we overindulge for their prosperity
What a shame,a disgrace,a great pity
that we sell out to this unmerciful machine
I say we let mother be
just let her be
Dont let it be

looking deep within self
I glimpse an image of
you and I, realizing that
our felicitousness
flows with the
currents; expanding to
enlighten mind and soul
alike as we fulfill its
dormant hunger, to
appreciate what our
affinity for one another
begets; as we awaken
to overindulge in the
delicacies of our wants,
fore, our desires are
somewhat demanding
in its urgency; when we
have a lifetime to savor
of one another's ardency,
without abating our
affectations; before we've
had a true feel for love's
expectancies.

Merry Christmas one and all,
I hope you all have a ball.
Enjoy the spirit of festive cheer,
That only comes once a year.
And so now switch on your tree lights,
As soon it will again be night.
Do not overindulge on the turkey this year,
Think of the extra weight you've to clear.
Open your gifts, all special to you,
As you are very special too.
I hope all your wishes and dreams come true,
But for now, I bid you all adieu.

I want you to listen to
my breath in your heart,
remember that I'm there,
feel me overindulge in your blood,
******* teeth rot in your love.

My mind is filled with noise.

Sometimes the sounds of music,
Symphonies and orchestras.

But other times the sounds of failure.
Lack of accomplishment.

There are times when my mind is so intent
That I ensure my eating habits are not bent.

That I don't overeat, overindulge or have a treat.
Eat ice cream, and you will surely feel the heat.

The wrath of negative thoughts as they endlessly grow,
My mood dips into a bottomless low.

It's been a long battle, "I should be over it by now"
But sometimes those thoughts insist I'm a cow

I'll continue to fight to change my mind
And change its noise to a more melodic kind.

We watch them every day
Living through hell
While we overindulge and feel the joys of life

Why don’t we see the misery all around us
Why don’t we feel their pain
Why are we ok with ignoring their cries for help

Are we all ok with their suffering
Are we so selfish that we value our belongings over their lives
Or are we just all asleep dreaming of a world where we don't have to feel uncomfortable when they ask for our money

When will we no longer be ok with their suffering
When will their lives come before our trinkets
When will we finally awake to see the people we hurt everyday

Until then we will continue to
Watch them every day
Living through hell
While we overindulge and feel the joys of life

Your tread has become dreary,
Heavy and weary;
You have forgotten why you walk.
Long ago,
You stepped on your once innocent, Brightly burning wick,
Obliviously,
Until it was out,
Cold and buried,
Many feet underneath the dull landscape
You now walk across.

You have forgotten how to see;
Your eyes have sunk
Into the recesses of your thoughts.
They jump from light to light,
Like a frantic moth,
Following instincts yet unaware
Of its own light,
Its senses hammered
By its impulses.

You taste only extremes,
Overindulge in fanciful delights;
Your tongue gets drunk,
Then passes out,
Your mind convinced it has tasted
Satisfaction
And nothing more can be
Or is required.

You have forgotten yourself,
Your colourful visions,
Your raw sensations,
Your honest perceptions.
You have forgotten your
Uncontaminated,
Uncorrupted,
Uninfluenced yearnings.
The clouds that once beckoned you,
Taking your mind for a spin
With an outpour of
Tingling excitement,
Have come to symbolise
The nondescript background
Against which your silent struggle
Unfolds into
Nothing in particular.

As I sit
And watch mine mother again overindulge
In her nerve medication
I canst help but think
Me and her are to alike....
As I sit here feeling guilty
I can't help but think,

I wish I could giveth her
A happier life!!

There's more to it and more to come,
save your daylight
but
burn the sun,

I've run out of matches,
and
Lowry
painting matchstick men is unaware
of my desire
to torch and set the world on fire,

then
when this is then and now was when back then
I'll paint my life as matchstick men.

They've offered me therapy
because they want
a quiet me
but I'm not going to have it
I'm just going to rant a bit more,

I told you there was more.


Easter eggs.

Why we overindulge on these chocolate treats
beats me
and what do eggs have to do with Easter?

the juggling jester smuggles in laughter
as background to his show

and that's what it is,
a show
Easter  bunnies and upset tummies and
a long queue for the conveniences.

Killjoys are not always little whining boys
men can be them too
I can whine as well as anyone
except
the whinging 'Pom'
he's in a class of his own.

Who tries to make ends meat,
but never been fed
Pray on the daily, for just for an extra slice of bread?

I want some cake,
just to know the taste.
Make a little dough, so I can bake,
Get stuck in some beef. A while
since I've had some steak.
Put your life on the line, just to see what's at stake.

Food for thought I gave, can I have some feedback,
Light on all my responses, guess I'm just a snack.
Pray for me, with grace, and thanks.
To never overindulge, avoiding stomach cramps.

And a couple meals, to keep me fed.
Gain a couple pounds, earn a little bread.

My eyes are hungry.

What a strange Halloween week,
I am underwhelmed, I did not
overindulge, despite the
list of things I ate:
MPA, hash oil, 2C-B,
4-**-MiPT, escitalopram.
My head is not sated, I can feel
a sensation of unanswered cravings;

To the emotionally estranged,

I’ve never known what was good for me  All I’ve ever known was how to tie my shoes and binge eat captain crunch  You place your finger tips all over my stomach  Padding each piece of lymph  Do you ever want to curl like those little pillbugs?  It seems like I haven’t seen one of those since you watched me eat dirt, and grass, and I’ve perhaps tried a dandelion  But I don’t think you knew  I’ve tied your shoes before  My big tooth fell out on the driveway  We searched for a minute, maybe two  I tasted blood in my mouth for the first time  It was like the early smell of gasoline  I appreciated it  And I said so  I walked down the steps and turned the corner  Your eyes lit up to see the seven year old wearing tights, long socks, a dress underneath a sweater and a thrifted vest, as well as a lost fedora found in the attic  I pulled down the decrepit stairs and you heard the whine of bothered steps  yelling up the stairs “what are you doing”  Feathered Fedora shall be lost again  The school’s Saint Patricks leprechaun stole it  Or so you say to avoid the bi polar of it all  The hospital was a new thing for me  You took me, I sat silent in the passenger seat  We played the radio (we never played the radio)  I didn’t know if I should’ve apologized or something for having premarital ***  But I don’t think it would’ve bothered you too much  You’d be glad a boy liked me!  Well, he didn’t like me like that  I don’t know why he chose me that *****, ****** night  You bought me a sweater from Michaels afterwards, it said something like “I believe in unicorns and Santa”  It was on sale since it was January  I won’t let you hold me, and how it needles you  Wake  I sang at her wake  An Adele original  I did it for me  And you  But also me  Everyone’s tears dried by the time we reached the restaurant  I wonder how they fixed the smash in her head while eating eggplant parm  Mortisions are magical  Some crimes I’ll never forget  Asked why I don’t talk to him or text or call or like  We will sit in this diner and recline in the giant booth that’s too big for the fragility of your body  You pray for me  Stop praying for me  I take up much time  I don't have the right virtues for all that  Don’t overindulge in god  Track me home at two am  Make sure I’m safe  I’ll keep tying your shoes, at the graduation, at the barbeque, at the talent show  anywhere  I’d fly home to tie your shoes  if you asked me to  if you wanted me to  if you'd let me-

With a sort of deteriorating eternal love,
Angel

Looking at you is like walking through an exquisite gallery full of the most beautiful paintings in existence
Fascinating, overwhelming, I cannot help but get lost in each brushstroke
Touching you is like the very first hit of the finest herbal medicine high up in the mountains
Rough, calming, I cannot help but inhale until you fill up my lungs and leave me dazed
Kissing you is like a taking long, slow drink from the most eloquent wine on a balcony in France
Sweet, sultry, I cannot help but pour another glass
Making love to you is like biting into a delicious meal seasoned to perfection cooked just right
Mouthwatering, satisfying, I cannot help but overindulge in my cravings for an extra helping

I'm constantly fighting with my flesh
I'm trying to listen to my spirit since it knows what's best
Now, my spirit is very strong
And it's been trying to hold on
But my body is getting the best of me
Honestly
It scares me
That I so easily
Give in
To my ****** feelings that brings on sin

Only my God knows
The torture I feel in my soul
The battle, my struggle I have with my flesh
The battle I have with letting go
Of my ****** desires I have deep within
I try to fight the urge
But my flesh seems to always win
It's a guilty fact
And I hate that
I haven't quiet mastered abstaining just yet

My flesh constantly yearns for that familiar touch
The one that my body craves for so much
The one that I overindulge in
The one that I can never ever get enough of
Why does it have to be so hard to find love
Without feeling the need to be sensually touched?

My flesh is nothing but trouble
Trouble that I allow myself to create
A feeling that feels oh so good
A feeling that I just can't escape
And I'm trying, Lord knows I'm trying
I really want to get away from this feeling
But I honestly think it's too late

i awake upon brewing dawn -
stinge of a last hit waltzes past
my beloveds’ fingertips taunted with ash,
and i succumb to hauntings

how i beckon with lost days
overindulge in spoonfed daggers
my blistered throat parallels zir inflamed ego
suffocated deceptive, guilt - scripted coerced, apologizes
escorted by fault down crimson carpets
what a provocative

refusal of touch names me ****?
but the other femme knows another,
another i know well

the grim reaper looms amidst repressed dusk
i plead for rising moons
i appeal for reassurance
query the harlot?
i mustn’t