I write like a nutjob

I'm not even going to pretend I'm writing poetry.  Lamp cold change argument death navels stepping rancid cold row law shit god moose

Etching row guess

I was hopeful that somehow I would deal with this kinetic failure.

It turns how?  my life is cruel in one respect:  I am a book.

I like that.

No one respects a book.

Using your life to make a book is destructive and a betrayal.

I expect that when I become a pinch of rope that you will be my argument against love.

My emotions:  Dark ram god gives no one love.

I am worried about this change.

I read somewhere that when there is cruelty that people don't know why they are failing to be loving.

Cruelty carries many priests, many cruelties, many sacks of dense roses.

I am dense.  I am insensitive.  I torture myself because I hate my lamp.

A lamp is crazy, like a whore.  I don't say what a whore is.  I don't say what that is.

Failure is so soothing. 

Poem post-op pope.

I tend to say what is there to say.  I think that I am a post-op nut job.

Nut job = mars as rite of law.

Kill the drug addicts for  they hate their lives.

I am the only cruelty that is my own book.

Clarify.  PLEASE clarify.

Compassion and empathy are when I give myself a way to live that does not involve passion.  Passion makes the only reason to be good.  Love.

I will that you change your life.

I will that you become your own peace.

Death will not kill legs.

I receive this as a way to say:  It is my right to say that art is my memory of justice and love.

I tell you live.

I tell you be happy.

I tell you be what you need.

I dream that life god is not love money.

O goddess like this a fruit.

An anemone.

A lone.

A moment of love.

In one word there is Her -- bimbo.

Try to be what is thus.

I feel free of my ashes.

I cannot write like this and expect beauty.   I love food.