Write Drunk, Don't Edit.

The mistake I make is to think
that I need anything other than the silence of reality
The untapped potential of blank canvas calm.
You who say too much and think too little,;
you interject with a script that claims it’s improvised.
 
Is any of this real? I have thought as much before.
Now, in my heart, the churning and doubt
like a roller coaster sick soufflé
strewn about the. . .
There’s a pause within this moment,
a fragrance of regret,
wherein I fold and ascend.
 
Envelope the moments of my life
like a comic in 4 dimensional transition;
where the ending is the beginning,
the refrain is the crescendo.
Old friends since my youth;
We, who know death is two steps away,
whether left or right,
it’s all the same.
 
The peak of persistence
of life as they know it.
Can’t you hear god’s soft hum
and the bright beat of mom’s heart?
For death and life are prisms;
parents who dance upon rings of. . .
 
Gracious she is, to allow me such faults
I bask in forgiveness, as father taunts me with
fingerling cordial, tenderloin care
Sheep and the baaaaa, we smirch and we caw
The dreadful pain of evening refrain
The bliss of missed kisses and afternoon blisses
She traipse up a storm and forbids my forlorn
For what is the sequence of all that we seek
 
Is this beauty or passion
Fragrance or fashion
Petals and tulips and midnight mint juleps
She sings like a swan song and beckons all night long
So bleed through the prescience of penance or prescient
Of being of be me or beaming of seaming to be the transcendence or
Us three