“Dumb Luck”
I know critics may want something they’ll never have.
Art has its forms from the void.
Leaving paint on a canvas should spark a revolution.
The brush puts my knife on edge like reflection to insanity.
We show our poem, trash remains.
Questions mark this territory in creation:
How do we touch a mystery no one finds?
Is color the defense on flavor?
Could we love friends and not hate anybody else?
Something’s killing me here.
Love at its source weakens the mind.
Dreaming an obstacle hurts the chance, mirrors to mirrors.
Where is my face hiding?
Porn shows up on the internet right when I give nothing.
Porn shows up on the internet right when I give nothing.
My brush lingers over branches of the family tree.
I give, or show, from not wanting so much.
Desires in my mind have little to do with “desires”.
A romantic passion burns in my soul, image on tide.
Other colors cloud my mind during secrecy.
Gambles turn the constellations only in thought.
Nature showers extremes along fatigue.
Tiring exhaustion of fumes under speed of light…
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friendship
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