This bad thing called anger is/poems/separate lines reveal/ing disjunctures in thought which proceed from fissures in loyalty, understanding/art is a man/Death drives pain to its foolish apartness. Sexualityh decrees its own money. And now I tell myself for myself with your troubled response: There is a poem which I cannot deal with that I have found in my openness. It is a road to man. He is nothing but everything to his own creativity.
I must escape pain.
There is a pain which is around itself, which derives its life from anger and from fear. I describe it and nobody answers with any: loud poetic reasonable mo/och Dead is cruel.
I am mad because I paid to listen for rights and for beauty and I hear death and anger.
Why?
All joking aside, I am really worried about this anger. It feels like I am nothing. This is the only life I have. I cannot understand what can help me if I have no life. I have to get used to being passionate.
ReplyDeleteI am partly angery at mhy creativity. I think it is a cruel fear of being loved that I am trying to cling to, not creativity at all. If you have any way to remember what I loved, I will be here to be happy and good. Man and life are good. I am hopeful that no one will become a mess. That is probably unrealistic.