by the time I finally seek to speak my words are born of frustration from the vintaged culmination

what is consistent is the pattern of cramming like a sideways stick going down a narrow passage like a clenched throat, why does it feel negative and judged with a marachino cherry mostly?

i try to overcome and dwell in the swell of hoping that the blush of my blooming heart provides, but even it subsides through the tedious times ticking, jaws clenched, enamel worn, papers thus torn...

i so want to say the lovely things and always every one of the days but those fleet in the deadend streets of cryptic city, not to pity, just tired, justly

why does it have to be this way
sway and lament, get bent
no vice or ice
to and fro, stay or go, feels like a show down here in the below
I bellow.
I can't tell most days the darks and lights in the haze, it is melded and fused when used, feels like fights

i try to stay hopeful, delving into the mysteries on baited hooks, where there seem crooks and dirty looks more than books...

how to remain hopeful through that is a challenge.

thoughts to spare.