Goodmorning, Glory

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There has always been a yearning within me, to proclaim, my losses, and defame my winnings, as I create, with a key sense of warning and paranoia. The guttural waves of attention that, produce my storytelling and ancestral anecdotes are now, internally reverberating back to their home, asking more of my mental to speak slowly, breathe quietly and profess humbly. I have witnessed death, and earth-strong demons, I have recorded cries for help, and have begun to scratch the surface, of truly, my existence here and the other side of my being that requests a downfall on behalf of my emotional academy.I am learning what emotions truly are, the artificial insertion of depression and those who are haunted until the night’s end of what can, should, would and might be, after this note, I guess after you have read this note, can you tell me, how you feel, can you legitimately tell if you’re okay, or if all of this is an intellectual bout with anxiety, the pillars of my dignity resorting to a whim of destitution and foreign adoration.

Are you okay?

Am I helping you see something, is this all a blur, and at this very moment, could it be you, the reason why I am in your mind, telling you of my discourse, could it be you, helping me write this all along, breathe with me…..I’m in awe of your resilience, your your need to understand me, to tell me how much love is both a landscape of sound and action with, crevices of remorseful spirits, again yearning for a return. Infernos, intense exaggeration, but it is a bearing I know all too well. The only being that speaks life in a language of my own understanding is the petaled rouge, fingertips of all of these roses, that whimper in the face of prejudice. These roses are the harvest of life, at least sublime reasons why, I still have mine.