Viscous accounts

My acts of honest disclosure are stabs of glass; I turn against my own ego.

Although, those brash attacks are blasts of mad. My emotions are abstract at that, so I feel disarmed against my own soul that would decompose. Until I make a rasher grab at this valid power you have.

My force is natural, and I was never bad at that. My own nature is something I presuppose – I am massive at.

I bow to none, simultaneously, while I bow to all.

Sometimes wondering how I am percieved.

Because no matter how it seems, I feel massive tall.

I am trapped within trap. I am black against black.

I am fine ingredients mixed, with sourest taste, in which is laced with sweet bliss, in which is as fleeting as a calm before a storm. My only ever fear is to go blind or deaf, because then in fear I would no longer be able to stare, while the trumpets, I could no longer just hear.

In the victories, of wise righteous, we pull out swords in our favor. I feel a win on the horizon, in which winning will be savored. In my human form I feel angst, and great pressure, but in me I feel a Godliest nature in which when it will arise again, my excellence must be as sharp as a razor or laser.

Tallest trees in which chopped, so until then I speed up my rhyme scheme until hot.

I feel chained within this lock, but the forces of nature are sure not. Speaking to this reflection is none scarier, than a moment when I am crushed by none other, but by the creator of things.

How utterly, dangerous and strange.

That my love is bigger than my fears or deep hate. I sleep late, tossing without my own prerogative, it must be the nature of this thing I am at war against: this artificial belligerence, that I am in control of, whilst, knowingly, subject to my higher power.

Jehovah, holy spirit.

Holy spirit, control my mind, while I am daring in this prison of impairment, and glaring reflection.

My eyes were designed to only see you.

I need you; speak to my only harmony of imperfection.

Change this world at once, through your time of excellence, and perfection.

I need your direction, I need your whispers daily.

I need your inspiration, I never and vow to get through life, and existence, barely.

Do you hear me?

[114] Remember: you shouldn’t be surprised that a fig tree
produces figs, nor the world what it produces. A good doctor
isn’t surprised when his patients have fevers, or a helmsman
when the wind blows against him.

One response to “Viscous accounts”

%d bloggers like this: