Goodmorning, Glory

The only thing I have now is, skin, the only thing now, you see is skin, the skin of your emotion, the skin of your distance, you only see the physicality, and witness the reality, maybe that is the demise of my realism and purpose of, existing, always saw this as an excursion of spiritual experiences, while these figures, we encompass just serve as, decoys. The things, I wish for now, hold, power, the only real thing, I present my soul when, understanding where I reside in your eyes, you give me so much, you offer me so little, but I manage to take the remains and build a fortress of confusion, sap of misfortune oozes from the partially, mind beaten, and inflamed wood, your house needs to stand, better yet survive. Love is severely, the artist’s rifle, the knife of use, that cuts, sacrifices, inflicts, wounds of extremities, of our understanding, that is primarily the reason, we work these colors, endlessly, these employees, so hard, through the brushstroke’s fragility, to illustrate, what we can never seem to feel, but know in such a displaced state. I used  to want to die, I used to…well I used to want to erase my pain, so distinctly, that I would, alert those who are hurting, that this is the only way to let the world know, you have something to say, that you have been feeling something this whole time, that your tears have been, ignored or taken as the depressive’s jest, but now, I have more anxiety to sing for these few, to sing for these children, for my children, for my inner-child, you know what the  worst part about love, is, it leaves you in awe, while it devours, angst, producing temptation, draws upon emotion and conceives spirituality, the best part, is that my consistent affair with the concept, is the best thing that has ever happened to my life.


The Libertine