4
she the prayer.
she the embodiment of the ho(me)peless.
she the portrait of magdalene an i christ like will fight the stone throwers. the desert is cold at one o'clock an this should be sung all these words a song not a book but a testament to the tenement angles of fifth streets america gun shot deaf an still dreaming of their families at chirstmas. this is a testament blessed be second hand clothes macaroni an cheese not being able to afford an trying to make children understand. blessed be the moving man an the pride of yr family together again. this should be sung in falsettos against the tidal waves of witness to the desecration of character an the loss of control. this should be sung to light burning the dark off in that steam of future glories fog, in that mist of hope i can almost reach that hand. an the flesh is trembling with electricity an there is love there. an what about the kids an what about the kids an what about the kids an what about the kids an what about the kids?
i the abandoned i the orphan stand defiant an say i got enough love fer everybody.
is how it felt.
an i know she has to deal with what could become an the hurt of children.
an everyday comes from a last night, an every night comes so we can rest.
she got a lot jmt in her. i hurt her. i don't want to hurt again. these are prayers dig, prayers for myself to help myself an save myself. i don't want to be crook no more. i don't want to be the ugly an hated no more. i want to be able to look myself in the eye again. i always look down reaching an grabbing for the gut that put me in so many awful situations, maybe grabbing for the absence of courage that made me look awful running away from situations. blessed be the uninspired an unknown that cling to the lack of talent an dead dreams cause you only got the first thought best thought an where else you gonna go when it goes dark. i miss home an pray for that. i miss the cheer of youth an the shy games that we played with sticks an forbidden dens. i can remember the bush fort by the canal in boise, now long dead. i forget it not, forget nothing an hope for each vision the best. i can remember the pain of seeing slobby robby an knowing my die was cast, out here all grown up an not willing to fight for shit it classified me then classifies me still. blessed be the silent afternoons with gi joe an he man hunting through the garden looking for belonging. she may be the abuse, the figure head of laughter an the oncoming shower of tears but i cant escape the first warmth of finally getting a sense of home. dear jmt i was too young then. we were too young then. mck this will be prayer for you when all is said an done, something for you to rest yr head upon in college or early thirties that yr pa was alright a stand up an decent man. i get sick every near dawn when i realize she aint calling or coming for quick hug. an all i got is another few pages of words. i get sick near dawn when i am ready to collapse cause it aint been fine tuned is not published yet. blessed be pete for staying with me through the storms, blessed be the wag tail on display when i turn full of sadness that it could not sing or be brought to life beautiful. he is an angel. blessed be j, j & h. yr gonna be alright there is an effort underway to make a family again. i hope that. i got nothing but prayers, nothing but hopes an surrounded by ghosts i got nothing but time to pound this fucking heart out straight maul it into a best seller an be something more towards a provider. i will wait an i will work an it will come. she is absence. she is something to be loved an this book be for her. i fear for you, a., i don't want nobody to hurt you. i get tremors yr gonna show up with a black eye or that you have to pay yr rent through sex to some pig with blushed pale skin an a brow that is always sweaty. i get sick with visions for you, absent from me, visions of meaty hands an clumsy attacks, visions of cry myself to sleep at night, visions that everything is fraud an there is no strength left to take my hand. blessed be the struggle of mother whose self is holy an worth more than anything i could offer.
she the embodiment of the ho(me)peless.
she the portrait of magdalene an i christ like will fight the stone throwers. the desert is cold at one o'clock an this should be sung all these words a song not a book but a testament to the tenement angles of fifth streets america gun shot deaf an still dreaming of their families at chirstmas. this is a testament blessed be second hand clothes macaroni an cheese not being able to afford an trying to make children understand. blessed be the moving man an the pride of yr family together again. this should be sung in falsettos against the tidal waves of witness to the desecration of character an the loss of control. this should be sung to light burning the dark off in that steam of future glories fog, in that mist of hope i can almost reach that hand. an the flesh is trembling with electricity an there is love there. an what about the kids an what about the kids an what about the kids an what about the kids an what about the kids?
i the abandoned i the orphan stand defiant an say i got enough love fer everybody.
is how it felt.
an i know she has to deal with what could become an the hurt of children.
an everyday comes from a last night, an every night comes so we can rest.
she got a lot jmt in her. i hurt her. i don't want to hurt again. these are prayers dig, prayers for myself to help myself an save myself. i don't want to be crook no more. i don't want to be the ugly an hated no more. i want to be able to look myself in the eye again. i always look down reaching an grabbing for the gut that put me in so many awful situations, maybe grabbing for the absence of courage that made me look awful running away from situations. blessed be the uninspired an unknown that cling to the lack of talent an dead dreams cause you only got the first thought best thought an where else you gonna go when it goes dark. i miss home an pray for that. i miss the cheer of youth an the shy games that we played with sticks an forbidden dens. i can remember the bush fort by the canal in boise, now long dead. i forget it not, forget nothing an hope for each vision the best. i can remember the pain of seeing slobby robby an knowing my die was cast, out here all grown up an not willing to fight for shit it classified me then classifies me still. blessed be the silent afternoons with gi joe an he man hunting through the garden looking for belonging. she may be the abuse, the figure head of laughter an the oncoming shower of tears but i cant escape the first warmth of finally getting a sense of home. dear jmt i was too young then. we were too young then. mck this will be prayer for you when all is said an done, something for you to rest yr head upon in college or early thirties that yr pa was alright a stand up an decent man. i get sick every near dawn when i realize she aint calling or coming for quick hug. an all i got is another few pages of words. i get sick near dawn when i am ready to collapse cause it aint been fine tuned is not published yet. blessed be pete for staying with me through the storms, blessed be the wag tail on display when i turn full of sadness that it could not sing or be brought to life beautiful. he is an angel. blessed be j, j & h. yr gonna be alright there is an effort underway to make a family again. i hope that. i got nothing but prayers, nothing but hopes an surrounded by ghosts i got nothing but time to pound this fucking heart out straight maul it into a best seller an be something more towards a provider. i will wait an i will work an it will come. she is absence. she is something to be loved an this book be for her. i fear for you, a., i don't want nobody to hurt you. i get tremors yr gonna show up with a black eye or that you have to pay yr rent through sex to some pig with blushed pale skin an a brow that is always sweaty. i get sick with visions for you, absent from me, visions of meaty hands an clumsy attacks, visions of cry myself to sleep at night, visions that everything is fraud an there is no strength left to take my hand. blessed be the struggle of mother whose self is holy an worth more than anything i could offer.
posted by The Swellington at 9:44 AM
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