watering

I am here to ask the written word of you. There is a place with the steaming thoughts that need their hope. They have their shapeless sworn places made from people carelessly strewn around the widening sky. The orange and pink shower causes the era litters stranded by graceful tomes to be ridden like a failed coma, since proven to be a faked stubborn woven light. Of course all this is not necessary to show that I care even a little bit about the talent or the need for a weapon to be written about.

There is probably a reason to find this. My head is giving me the lines of garbled nonsense, and I need to be found by the better thought and all I have is the righteous decline of weapons that need me to be here. There is no problem. There is a path for us here within the grand design. These weighted thoughts are beginning to find a hard line made for whites and the gracious term made for all the great thoughts that need all these white lines filled with grace and design made for radios and televisions laughing with these weapons made for watering the cans. This will work for a while, at least.

I very much decide that the grand people take their fighting way made from leaders with the highest letter means that he has water for the faithful ones that light their harmful spines with the letters that must bring the water to me for the last time. Still I have these white lights take me and the cursed path, the one that writes my nightly decision with the faithful symptoms needing me to light their path until I can find myself, finally and distinctly with the distractions in the gracious spines and need my water-borne idle sums that grant me severity. I have believable stones in my pocket.

We have to break here with I mention the task at hand. These silent waters make their still home the gracious place for me to find the silence at hand and her to make the water braid within the bridge that watches me from the winding road that leads here. The only sum that I have left is the portrait of myself made of cannabis, psychiatric mud and the shapes I am left with, behind which I hide. There they sit haphazardly, red and green triangles perched precariously on a door lying on its side.

I am behind the door, huddled with a stuffed animal. When there is no other world, I find the way behind the turbulent tone that keeps me here. I have to be sure that there is a way beyond the silent watching kind that keeps me mortal. Where are the shiny thoughts, and I have the lighter when the gracious tomes keeps me wandering with their whole lights, with final thoughts and tones, things that I cannot find without her. There are sheep at the bar. They are ordering silent rounds and finding whites to be sure. They cannot drink the lessons down, but they are fine; with us, they are sitting in pantaloons making fudge.

Chaos divides us, so make sure you bring the harps through. There is a climate within these walls. They do not speak like the others, and with their harmful ways they cause me a blind injustice. I cannot belong with the helping ones. I must destroy their hopeful word and I have become someone just enough to long for something great. That is what I will do. Is there a gracious blind man for me there? I longed but could not speak to him.

Floating discs, made of plastic, they burn through the streets made of carnal joy. They feel like a shine made of summer heat in the deathly cold of the winter, like a day of rain on your vacation to the desert. Still they find me with them. I cannot be careless like the others. I must run through this muck. This is a grave responsibility and it cannot be taken lightly. There is a story within these ramblings, but I gave it up with the right permissions and now it is hidden somewhere deep within a jagged confusing mess.