A Way To Make It Through

With all these lines, we cross and seem handsome.

We look at the soil and with everything relevant I want to kiss my loves.

I have intertwined my barriers with some fullness of family I can’t carry.

I want to press my hands to tangible truth that we may be okay.

For I spent a summer looking at these loves becoming dirty debris,

and now to spend this agonizing autumn with them feeling cannibalistic.

My baring eyes on constant observation is now understanding why we are clothed.

With it, everything is heavy and bursting shallow silence.

This is my call towards desire of a single atom to break and surf my face.

My love, to hear your voice at the tip of illumination,

my breath is thickened and exhausted. 

For one after another day you just find the neon abused by father,

and lady luck in a daring attempt to shed shelter mama, you kissed her cunt

and became the shimmer fad of manly stands in all palms of hands, we think is a dream. 

We feed off of pastures and the neighbor’s farm, pacing the street, and kicking our feet towards our faces, and all we have to show is a smirk of glow.

My love, you are in a gutsy bleak stage, with this robotic romance, swaying your cans of a strong behalf.

Beheaded your own damn growth of distance and Lauren.

The crushed head in a gutter talking to a black man about her.

Leaving my hands, I avoided you that night.

 Lifting your megaphone towards holy shit, you made it to the winged help.

She instantly made a move to find you, in a manic shame, jamming an old harp,

a out of state collusion, you made a nesting thought that prided my tartness.

My love, she is in Hispanic courage.

You bend the word of these childish years, in a dynamic spice,

waiting for the drizzled span of an open field event, in conversation of virginity.

 I long for a returning of her homey desserts and his homey tunes.

They long for a shattered sheet,

upon a splintered secret of joining a fair night plea, a cluttered constancy of fare wells. 

My love, you have made an undeniable dent in the landing of yesterdays.

Squeezing your touch as if I could have that mark for my wrinkled tale.

He financed a pace of waits.

All I hear is the way he can make you feel more control than a planned minute,

finding seconds to make time in the corner of every brand of implanted cause of my membrane finding a reason to break my shoes from the ten thousand paced breaths,

when I said these words to you.  

And now the night is a thought, shifting swift lines we have yet to cross.

For a chill of winters nails scrap the idea,

and when, I will yet again strap settled waves to make a way to heavens bluff.