To inject the inkjet, explore the ignored. Pointing up to heaven, the black dirt roots have their own tears. She liked a different future, found no safe container here.
Peeling open the diamond, quiet exchanges in quiet extremes deranges the mind of simple symmetry in and out of scar seams, and I'm autistic again.
Back at home feeling the hole in the wall that the mercy slug sailed through, the neighbors said leaving it open to inspection might help someone else (thanks for the flowers to someone else's sorrow).
Understanding the maybe in her was always like a ritual, and she leaf without a trace of a chance to hide in bravery.
When love seems not enough, it marks its sweet smile of clouds and clowns in the sky.
When does the Nature Replication befall the acidic necessity of the written spirit? Can't blink back every poem burning like a collap-sing star.
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