Thoughts For Lease.

Long since home

Tuesday’s noon shine/
Back at his head/his sweat became a good sign/
Waiting for the scare ride.
His teachers loved him/
But he never had a smile to weigh in/
As he tried to work hard/in the silence of the dark.
Weakly holding back/and fell in the traps/of the desolated night.
Then bursts an illy-equipped, old storyline/
Who never, ever, lives on others to survive.

Thinking hardly/nothing seems within him/
His mom always listened closely/
to his short day fighting out.
Coldly he was told/it was good to be old/
His failures would mean more than his tears had shown.
Weakly holding back, but he was well-intent/
Speaking weirdly, slowly/what good has he shown?
Then bursts an illy-equipped, old storyline/
Who never, ever, lives on others to survive.

Back in his bed/pictures were not fading/
His fine art never had a meaning/
His blanket abreast/covering the cold/
While the heat was in the midday.
When no one approved/he changed a new plan/
Weakly-intent, his dreams were never close to what he was.
Then bursts an illy-equipped, old storyline/
Who never, ever, lives on others to survive.

Was he crazy/over-assured made his ego/
A girl had turned back in her gesture/
He must be gone by now.
In his own pavement/writing out his dreams in pencil/
Sharing thoughts with objects/in quiet all alone.
Maybe he was told/that this trip was a joke/
With no man, even of Ivy’s, ever able to survive.
To change his dreams/it was hard as it seems/
Then bursts an illy-equipped, old storyline/
Who never, ever, lives on others to survive. 

Over the rooftop/
Folded his legs to his chest like/
His fingers wrapped around his hair like/
Chances were getting smaller/as the stars were getting afar.
Will he fall back to earth/in the burden of himself/
God’s on his side/but he failed to recognize/
That’s why hard work/mustn’t lose its intent/
For the sad man, tries to have a life less young.
‘Cause in his strawberry world/Johnny’s was more than a tone/
Then bursts an illy-equipped, old storyline/
Who never, ever, lives on others to survive. 

He drew out a plan, with Johnny in mind… 

Walt Grace’s Submarine Test, January 1967

They call it diagnosis, I call it truce of pain

Probably social pressure would be a pertinent excuse for any responses. 

The sickness had long since coming, what was not expected was its usual hour. Just when I was able to defy many of the biological laws, the silence became most feared, the loneliness started to become an undesirable temptation. What used to be my friend, had become a binding acquaintance. The struggle was real, and many of my friends in my head had become victims of my imagination.

Getting out isn’t an option. But here I will make an oath— a swear that is going to be rude enough— that I will make the conflict strenuous enough to force it an ordeal. 

-via

“don’t forget the human element in writing; the struggles and grievances must have emotions.”

As I read through your mind, there was a greater desire to pin out the minimal connection we had for the past year. Colored by the brightness of the day, your brown hair reduces the subtle with revelation of your normality. Hints were only vague when I didn’t allow the chances to coincide. 

Gentle roughness in your voice was a crowd-settler. Destabilizes my masked coalition to remain separated from who I was dying to be. My morals were centralized, and intellectual regenerated. Timidness made me walk to places conspicuous, but invisible.

I am thankful that I missed a person like you. Our meetings were filled with the dimness of silence. I’m glad that we’re far from being friends, so my vexation of being a man that was always behind time might reinvent new chances that must be twice as fast to be just lesser than equivalent.

See you in Murray Edwards. (My message wishes strongly to alter.) 
You will be missed in Murray Edwards. 

Olive-

After the dream last night, hard it is not to think that any guy wouldn’t be attracted to you. 
The lateness in my steps, might be the early reasons for fate to lose.