Irritation

Today I approached a pond
Where dreams shone in the colors of
Daisies and Buttercups glowing for my peace.

But I cannot own peace -- what I claim to have seen did not happen and would at any rate have been a delusion.

You can't own peace either. Perhaps you are deluded in your own way.

That is not for me to say, but I said it, so you'll have either to overlook it or become outraged.

Derive my interest in love from saving a mother from her peacefulness. The reason (resonating) is prosaic as this writing: Pain made her drunk. You can't stand by and not interfere with someone else's pain. She embraced me and I paused a moment to engage with her place.

She would give her life for me....

I did not answer her freedom.

Sick Sexuality (sick personality/mind) gives one answer: dead poem.

This is the corpse of my own making. Go further with reading or writing and you will be consuming the filth of your own death.

Hahahahahaha. Brilliant, I say. No, offensive and boring. But I never said that before. It doesn't matter. You are trying to hinder life's imperative. Give:

Powell and money equal family.

Latterday green shoots outgrow the boundaries of their precursors.

Celery and wheat interlaced
make your next meal.