When is Easter? Anyone want to find a blessed church. Okay, I’m serious. What unites us, may really divide us, if love and hate multiply us, somehow the period like the remainder is actually like a snake underneath the manger, the period is actually not a step by you or god, like crabs they crept up on the beach and invaded; now the sun burns as you scramble to find your feet, a once ordinary gaze far out onto a dream feels like an extra hot blanket of denim burns on your back, your arches and even sandal lines are scorched with neither apathy or resentment; to be truer meant an isolation from absolution to prove a weight once carried high upon the tree. With Atlas as your rippled shockwave of nose dives in baron formality the dunes all sunk un-noticed. As I picked up and carried more trash, I left years ago. My shirt tied to a piece of string flying in the sky; all I know is right now, I’ll be lowered tomorrow, I’ll never come down, but I will find Christ. I’ll go where I want to go; and darkness will divide me no more.


Once there was a boy named B. He grew up to all he wanted to be. Once there was a boy named A, he couldn’t see as far as he wanted to so he: looking through the bottom of a glass, he looked as if he wanted a chance. Everywhere he looked there was nothing he could C. He went back and forth and all around him he was complete with everything that B. He wanted to go and get an A. Later he could not see. He was blind as a bat could B. He was loud and never made a sound. He stood but never touched the ground. He could only breathe. The only thing that was. He could time the progression of a clock. He could feel his feet in yesterday’s socks. When the people made a gesture he would complement. When the women asked him how he felt he would vent. When the items fell to the floor he would pick them up. When he fell down… he never fell down. When he was sad, he felt good. When the lights were dim he felt a silhouette. Everyone around him was full of regret. Everyone around him was over regret. Everyone around him never cried. Everyone around him was done crying. Every joke he told people laughed. Every joke he told he laughed. Every joke he told he told it. Every moment that passed he held it. Every eye that glanced looked passed. Every truth that was, was past. Every time he was new, he was old. The night was the same as stories usually unfold. One time he was given a chance. He was tired of waiting for chances and took his next action by chance. The chance was to not have a chance at having chances. Everywhere he looked he was surrounded by chance. Every time he looked for god he came. Every time there was no god he came. Every time he was called for he came to call for god. Every time god was non-existent he existed. Every time god existed he left. Every time he prayed for god he waited. After all his waiting he always came. After he prayed for something else, he never knew what would happen next. After that happened he prayed for something else. One day she showed her face. The face was invisible. He could not see anything. He knew his A, B, C’s. She knew them also. After, he prayed to god for him to teach him his A, B, C’s. He knows his A, B, C’s. God knows the A, B, C’s. Later he learned the A, B, C’s. The A, B, C’s are now called the A, B, C’s. Everyone knows them. He now must pray that the A, B, C’s will one day teach him how to pray.


Check it. On the down low, feeling low, get down low, place your finger to the floor, the flow no more, from the time before, no raps to spit with a feeling so low, as you toy with the ground, no connection to the sound, no feeling, like your place, no feeling in your face, all you have is a desperate attempt to return to grace, the abstract, the heart in your lap, left from a life that’s been taken back, there is no reason to wonder, no vengeance to reclaim, nothing worth a sense of fame, no way to express a life in vain, or a life that was slain, a life non-existent in a brain, only a massive force of a consuming vessel, with no pressure to pump a breath inside of a body with no soul left, because once you receive a force of mental connection, that was an honest attempt to recover a resurrection, with some type of divine intervention, an invisible form of styled communication, leaving your hearing deaf to your own enunciation, the words are lost in a mumbled rant, violent and in need of some type of stimulating chant. Truth. A search. A voyage of infinite sight with no form to be exposed upon. There is no love. There is no soul. The cold past is a colder present, with a future based on giving more motivation to negative attribution. She does not exist. She never was. She never will be. The only sole remnant is a man of conventional lent with desire to vent. She is the wind, and air is space, sucking the sound from the chilled dust and snow and rust.


…Lost, been lost for words still loving life, I talk too much and I’m always too nice. I’m not the type to try and win you over; I’m the type to say, I win, it’s over. I don’t really have any enemies, rivals, or competitors. I have nothing to prove except Life itself. A desperate cliche to “need” someone to love; it’s a life long search, and at this point I’ve never found anyone who’s steps along the beach draw nearer mine, nearer the ocean, nearer the sun. I am salted up and parched for a pass out and a sun shower. I may have dug your feet deeper than a grave digger, but your footwork and your path is washing away like a doctor’s hands. Born into this world a loner, and a day of life yet to be lived free of the spoils of rotten children. All I care for is to rest my bones on something holy, something flesh of real love and soundly sleep. I’ll do my best James Dean or Humphrey Bogart; For everytime you made a wish sitting next to me in your car, I was wishin’ you were wishing for me too, and I wished I knew who you were wishin’ for too, now I wish I had a car for me maybe you, but I got a seat and wish you were in it too. One time, I was really drunk and I told that pussy before I beat it up; better to die a loser than to live like a worthless cheat. I stitched the time, saved nine, pressed the issue and squeezed all that she was as mine; and kissed her ass goodnight.


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