Tuesday, December 22, 2015

imploded black holes.

several continents, traveled

for good reasons, though some
hardly explored. some

i stalk. food. food.
food. i wonder
which color it is my skin has turned,

wherein my faith lies. they've muddied
yet they haven't in the least.
white swan- elusive swan- you are
my self on all days.

could the
veins-to-trace have some sort of
allegiance to themselves, and that's

why i insist on connecting them
to individual purposes? they are permitted

to flock. it distracts me from the pain-dance.
the selective mutism to
my pain, the rapist, the reaction

to emotions, who suck at singing.
i know that they are there.

couldn't it be

that this is some peculiar integration? what
would you expect? can't you notice my rebellion
against integration
that was there to begin with?

i've heard

that i don't integrate, that that's
my problem, but that i can-
but it has to be an epic
hunt for glory: it is difficult to access

a centering- however,

possible. i've heard one projects themselves
unto everything

and that's how they happen to see. the atmosphere

is unstable

when it is not on fire. we shall

have diamonds