I wish I never heard the truth

Is it true that the truth comes to us whenever we want it? Can I go outside and trust that the truth is around every corner? How will the truth trust my truth that I am telling? I cannot figure out the confines of what seems to be the inner workings of things past where honesty inlies and where lying takes presidence. I am one to complicate what is real and keep in the dark what is to be in actuality the fakeness of reality. If only I knew what everyone else knew, I would have the upper hand (or an even hand, depending on how one looks at it). Quick to judge, moderate to relieve.

Fulfilling

From a Ferry

Instruments of Citric Acid

I have fallen by the wayside. I have become downtrodden but I refuse to return from where I came. I am too proud but my fall keeps me from balancing my deeds on my shoulder. A task too easily forgotten, and one that is obviously too frightful for my tickled fancy to reveal. It is too bold and full of life to obtain a real identification of legency. It makes me cringe with utter ecstacy; it fails to hurt the fiber of my shorts; it feeds on the ceiling pellets and regurgitates the post-humus flesh into a bulbous pile of nylon excrement. The congas of my forgotten past beat my faith to a pulp.

A Body's Floating Down the Muddy River

Suffered Premonition

My Nervous Beatrix Motion

This little cold, autumn inquiry was not supposed to present itself until after the day's end. Only I hold the key to the retractive setting of the true windy atmosphere and its old reluctant vices. It trips my thoughts and warrants my deeds to tell you this all too fortuitous occasion has increased my paranoia and unsettled my grips on reality and my relations with gregarious personnel. Listen to the virtuous deadpan qualms of the tourist crying out to the entrapping underbelly of the great beast and try to exemplify the essence of it and repeat it when you come to odds with the actual jubilee of a winter's day.

Exhale