How will I ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering?

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  • alpha3 2w

    'Tis too vague now...

    Am I in thine deep a water now me dear, may thou behold but, must I not coerce for hath I meself not been aware of meself! 'TIs me peccable self that, cosseted by affection so raw for me and the invitations that art hurled at me, and oh! sweet an elixir is it that is it merely for me, can I not seek the same. Must hath it conceived deep, invisible a fugitive for me to find but, must I let thou know for ought is it for thee to heed that hath I scrounged...hath I scrounged in unfamiliar pavings am I son oft uninvited in, yet, hath I been ardent enough to trespass for mayhap, was I too blind to behold any entity but, thine presence - did it stand intact yonder! Indeed! Did it stand yonder the skyline of early a dawn marked the turquoise of the horizon at; hath I scrounged in lanes so crooked and repulsive! May sacrosanct a heaven yonder bless the souls trudging past the pebbles lying hither and tither on the pavings in, indeed, terror is it in the ambience of the ones that venture, yet, they venture for 'tis the taste of the dark of the midnight art they the ineluctable prisoners of that sinners crawling down the same avenues do they not see. Do I want thee to know that amongst the blind hath I been - seeking thy hand but, am I unknown if thy grasp be there to behold me back, and although, may I be a braggart for thou, must I confide in thee that do I need thou to recognize me; and scrounge do I, still in mist of me brain, thou behold, am I losing me hold and art my palms not wobbly but, me clumsy is the branch of the tree hath I sought in the labyrinth of that dark, and do I conceive respite on its further end. Indeed, can I crawl towards the trunk, do I need to get just a little closer indeed but, paralyzed art me limbs for will they not shiver, not even in fear... Me sense art far from reaching me now me love! and scream do I but, seemingly hath I lost me speech amidst the wood travelled I deep in. Alack! me sanity make me laugh at meself now me love for laughing am I, and am I probably too wild now that laugh do I for indiscernible is me own speech inside me! Can I not decipher for is the tongue no further indigenous for me! And is me laugher a smile now as the branch gets clumsy, as the branch gets clumsier and me misty - me sight yet, do I keep staring at thine stars spread over black a quilt...and do I keep staring as am I blinded... slowly and slowly...

  • alpha3 2w

    Hands am I clasped by, do I fear leaving either...

    In the midst of thine love, was I so drowned in the perspectives thou had yet, did I not perish in that water me dear, oh was I so not a victor in me survival for had I lost meself to thy hands of cutlery! Yet, oh delicate petals were they and delicate art they to me at the hour that counts now me dear! Oh, how lovely was it to be in thine clasp! How zealous could thou make me! Mayhap, Oblivious am I of the hours me fingers traced invisible a labyrinth of the palpable paths thine maple leaves had worn, thou behold, 'twas invisible but, am I not any to hurl any denial to the utmost of the truth that 'twas palpable. Yet, mayhap, 'twas me mortal brain to be so pliant; mayhap, 'twas the dryness of thine leaves that ran lifeless in inevitable a plethora that could those invisible routes not be sought with proclivity or, mayhap, 'twas me fate confiding in me somehow; alack, was I a captive of whispers for must I be for am I mortal an offspring to me mother Earth! Alas! Did I not fancy could the whisper be enough for me foolishness. Was it me foolishness to be so pliant but, not will I claim for the same because was I pliant to it, foolish was I because was I pliable enough to be told; may thou heed for must thee heed it for do I not surrender, hath I not intended to me dear!
    'Twas soothing! Ah, so delicate a care to be cosseted by! Was it and may it further be that me predilection was carved as did I ransack meself cuddled in another's arms. Unaware am I of the affliction I hurl at thou but, must thee know that am I not a traitor in thine love for were thou me air but, 'twas and 'tis me heart. Can I not surrender either! do I not surrender either! But, am I to surrender me dear - peccable yet, audacious a predilection I hath for thee. Oh, inflict me investments I spent on thee for departure seemingly makes thee too distant a memory for me, too distant for me nothing to reach thine doorstep of the wisdom art thou ineluctable a bearer of but, mere a retrospection I own and do I to thee owe. Will me remembrance not be Shakespeare's for oh! pardon me for am I too oblivious a mortal yet, may thee, midst the hours of starry nights and whilst me somnambulent a brain's activity, will I ransack for thy hold in, remain...for remain must the splash of every piece that, despite coerced with bitter a sweet by one's own lover, intends to caress just the same...

  • alpha3 2w

    Is thine rhapsody no smidgen less than poetry for me...

    'Tis pouring down! Must thou behold, 'tis having inevitable a fall me dear! Oh, how chaotic, yet, soothing art thee! Am I privileged to witness thy advent, I behold thy presence in the aftermath of. Is there a bunch of dry maple leaves conceiving respite in me vicinity, 'tis a reflection of the efficacy hath some unseen weary eyes put in it; is it captivating in the stance 'tis hurled with, does it not beckon any attention in here for art the hours invested in its craft so visibly enough for exasperated a soul to behold. 'Tis in this time that art thou bidding adieu to me - letting thyself depart! However, me eyes still behold thine remnants yonder! And do I wonder if thee behold me. Am I not by me window but, am in its vicinity indeed, and through the net of metal and a grill painted white, I beheld thine approach. Why! Did thou not utter, " Summon do I for thou to hath me glimpse caught but, flightless a bird am I for thee to betray me. Oh! Hath I so oft been in those clasps that am I familiar to the adobe of dim lights. Yet, must thee not be a traitor for traitor do I despise; yet, must thou explicate the lack of thine affection for me in me forth for am I too unknown to the affliction but, too known to the latter at the same time; and yet, fall will I for will I chisel me wings of feathers at the drop of a hat for thee but, must thee not beseech me for the same. Hath I come for me people in disdain; art they not pompous me dear for art they lost in contempt they never did desire for, and may I be inflicted yet, I beseech their glance anyway"?
    Ah! How aesthetic to behold thy sojourn and 'tis so elated to hath thou in me ambience! Must thou never beseech me and lay do I in thy forth, me amnesty if I coerced thou to ponder over the same; must I confide in thee for art thou me confidant so bereft of the sins am I probably the owner of, yet, 'twas thine advent that, in spite of the utmost of the reasons could any entity pertaining to me mischiefs summon for, thou pearls were there... thee let them to for they came...

  • alpha3 3w

    So oft will I perish for holy a fall...

    Here I sit on a green fabric. 'Tis green but, undeniable a truth is it that am I not pliant to its shade as much as am I by thy grace, for is it so aesthetic, ah! 'tis aesthetic. Ugly a green is it, thou behold, one that, letting perish the audacity of entities thy very presence itself is so oft enough to impart familiar yet, so unfamiliar a vivacity in me, is merely laid lifeless indeed. Art me eyes not heeded to conceive its lack of breaths for do me ears hear thou breathe in an azure just too dark for the satiated to see; art me sights not cosseted by me possessions am I so fortunate a possessor of for art they so drowned in thine river, one that flows past aesthetic a valley, and art thee so aesthetic me heart! Art so captivating that am I servile a captive to the glint of thy twilight without a plea; and art me pavings too tangled, a little too tangled art they as may thou behold, a little too bewildering indeed! am I quite lost in the dark dark woods but, not hath I been conscious a witness to them leading me to futility with thou in me ambience, for art they the only pebbles that evince the times is the aftermath of the hours at present so likely to hold but, hath I been there to claim that art the utmost of the aesthetics me muse already.
    Thou drizzle drop by drop, flows down thine water - an elixir for the ones hath the epitaphs been inscribed for, and undeniable is it for them to admit " Me heavens! Oh sacrosanct a fall that pours on me sins! Am I set so free of the handcuffs that hath I been so long a bearer of! Wash me soul clean with the splash of thine love! Let me not perish for do I desire thy kisses of drenched an errand, one art thee so known to carry with thyself in thine voyage over the seas so blue! as may thou not behold but, 'tis palpable in me - to ruin me soul wild, and wild irresistibly as I ransack the entireties of every good existence, to behold past me sins for once, and for all. Will I do the same at the drop of a hat, as may the truth hold, yet, mayhap, art the tears of the heaven not convinced for sinned hath I, yet, 'tis the breath thou allow in me that do I not intend to surrender to not even the heavens as mere sighs... ".

  • alpha3 4w

    Oh me dear, 'tis me grievance...

    Turn every page till thou reach the end, read every word before thee
    heed me seeking the pleasure of addressing thy advent. Am I mere a book - more than being the only bearer of lexical a beauty's display of inevitable hours of disguised a writer; am I a novel of the ages, a piece of art or, being a masterpiece as thine claims may be for me, yet, am I not the piece of art seeking attention for hath the praises not been to satiate me desires except for once, and for hath they been the time hath I been there to seek; and am I the dryness of the maple trees that the sweetness blossoms in the colours of the spring of, every time weary a traveller is none but, to their company. Do I not know or, am I clasped deep by vague an awareness to assess thine advent so sought afore long - unfamiliar a visit to me.
    Oh me lovely visitor! hath thou not known for certainty - me seconds invested in the search of thy eyes! Why? art they so weary to hath me bother thine privacy for me hours in vain were the retrospections keeping me, and do I conceive the pleasure of divulging to thou that art they me only pleasures am I gay dwelling with.
    Art they not mere an abode I belong to me dear for am I so in grasping ineluctable a predilection for thou...
    for am I elated to be blind to ransack else in thy love but, art the routes allowing me sight not blind to not conceive thine stare, oh, how honest a failure is it - thy futility! each time am I thy muse art thou so addicted a captive to the addiction of, but, not addicted enough art thee to retreat the footsteps defining thy departure; is thy stare loyal an evidence to me queries, and does it explicate divulge thou as servile an eavesdropper, oh deny may thee but, must thou not deny that 'tis is servile - thy being the eavesdropper of the serene amongst cumbersome a chaos, of the ears bereft of deafness which art, to thy rescue, undeniably kept from improvisation to hear, and of the one that, in spite of thy brain conjuring times for thou, keeps longing for thee dear...
    Do I not deny that am I dry to expound a captivity for one, merely will I hath a word or, two with thee for "am I not lifeless either" is the entirety me utterance seeks; and thy time beneath me shelter is not, but defined an an infinity, and so am I naked for thou to scrounge thine peace in me.

  • alpha3 4w

    As me futility trudged...

    Does me futility utter sensical an utterance to me, and says it to the latter heeding the same, "in spite of perpetual a love that, through the slits of those wooden doors of the cottage in aloof a land of fog, sought a paving anyway, is inevitably constructing an edifice, I behold meself as no greater a piece of adjunct on some wall of. Do thee visualize me worth on it dear Providence on earth? Enquire do I for am I not here to do the same for have thou hurled evidences enough for me own worth to engulf peril in thy abode.
    Holy a soul to me, had thou sinned as a mortal to seek a paving thee could ransack a home while trudging on, bearer am I not of criminal a grudge for sin do the mortals indeed; yet, is it not what I intend expounding for what I explicate is else, as was it in the times summoning retrospection.
    Were thee a mortal thou see... were thee indeed one inevitably; but, do the imprints of the splashes of those lovely acts not cease nor am I let to. Mortal were thee yet, blind were thou lest I be blind to behold thine true a visage of probity; mortal were thou in the globe but, could I not conceive thine status pertaining to thine presence into me assessment for might have I been immensely occupied by me own bewilderment; mortal were thee for me and art thou a mortal still, yet, was I yet to conceive deep a resuscitation in meself to visualize thou as one.
    Almighty have thee been for eternity to hold, but, may I not persevere till the hours of the latter to come, and besought did I thou, "not art they acknowledgements that do I trudge in the pursuit of for thy embrace is the entirety that is - the betwixt of beauteous a lavender and the violet of the laurel, is enough" ".

  • alpha3 4w

    Confides me reticence to thee...

    Have I been so oft a captive of thine advent, being so recklessly driven by the time that heeds thy presence, yet, am I, the one intending the latter as me eyes ponder the crystal azure of the sky, not so oft around to cosset thine palpable a touch. Allowed art thou for excruciating an irony is that to perish in the love am I not honest a lover of. Am I not here to scrounge for thine forgiveness for wept have I for the same and may thee not for infinite a time but, infinitesimal a one, lay the delicate ventral folds of thy palms' trust on me as do I claim that oh! so petulant am I with the clear of thine blue.
    Am I here for has me interior been the one responsible for inevitable an invitation can I not hurl me evasiveness to; alas! scared am I for the simultaneity to explicate. Bewildering is it me dear! bewildering is it to me as well for has not thy sense of invisibility in their forth been indomitable an aspect to keep me from the translucence of the vagueness - art me ambiences clasped tight with as thick a rope of futility as is thick, thy tears defining the true skyline in the black of the night. Indeed, do thou cover the scars thee art so accustomed to bearing lately with the glitter as is it merely another of thine infant thou will cosset with stoicism allowed deep in thy skylines. Art thou me affection held captive of me brain, art thou the one I venerate in some way of me own, and will I thus, be the hostage to thy queries for the sins I may commit. Pardon me not for prior an amnesty am I not here to beseech, but, thine acceptance of me fallible self with unconditional a splash of thine care. Am I a lover of thy shades, so light art they - aesthetic for me to behold; but, can I not cease admitting that admirer am I of thy apprehensions, and so can thou not cease being guilty of keeping the latter in fugitive from the mortals that art so unaware dwellers on the land of blue, and in nights of loneliness, can art they covered with the tears of their own with thee being the mere eavesdropper do they happen to let in.
    Now art thee conceiving thine departure, and sorrowful am I to bid thou despite me tears not flowing for am I so unaware of meself lest the else art here to ruin...

  • alpha3 6w

    Is it not inexplicable but, I

    Long a summer seems to have gone by, as I laid engulfed in me in me own perspectives, yet, so dormant have they been. Have I not seemed to let the blue, not of the azure the eyes of the sky conceive transient a sleep with, but, of the fountain of ink that does define the azure the silhouette of the skyline conceives a glint with reckless a hold of, yet, so oft did I and so oft do I let me intentions be engulfed in the bog, procrastination is the root of the bushes of infuriating an intransigence in, and slip they do into the same until is it as indomitable as oblivion of the mortals engulfing them.
    Might have thou been so oft desiring me advent, yet, did I not care enough for the hands that cosseted me. So is it me dear that love I thy presence in what seemingly conjures itself as infuriating and inexplicably intractable a clasp on me ribs, yet, is it the one thee conceive as labyrinth of me retrospection of the seconds that so art betrayed to perish in peril; however, do I not intend me mind with blissful a company of thy time for adore do I the taste of cold an ice with the thine love's warmth.
    As thou may behold, art those screams lullabies of a mother to me, ones that do bring urgent a closure to the pavings, the sight allowing thick a black art so oft known to scrounge its visitors through - quiet a bower of loyal a shelter to the weary traveller...
    As thee may assess me intentions with thine stay, "thine stay me dear! Oh how soft a splash does me brain get hurled with that be the same transient a sojourn, am I so apologetic for falling yet, so unapologetic for the same again" will possibly be all I say.

  • alpha3 10w

    The golden of thine light

    Light me up like the shade of the bright, one that thine eyes beheld as the neon of the night then; do I preach the same for am I so oft a captive of thine muse that muse do I the same. Honoured will I be if am I conferred with the splash of thine affection, a splash for is it unconditional for must it be - for me to fall for thee; do I reminisce thy visage in the glint of clumsy an afternoon - oh! shall I beseech the same now for ineluctable an elixir was it for me; oh! will even the sacrosanct Providence be clasped in betwixt the golden of that departing twilight - why, petulant an eavesdropper is it not for cosseted is it. Have I not been the sweetness of the day, has the latter not been mine either, yet, seldom art we the lovers of each in the hour of the red, the white of the jasmine is inevitably the crux of every sight at, the mightiest is even servile to the fatigue of its own at, and the living corpse gets the softness of soothing a breeze palpable at. Do I trudge past breathlessness yet, do I breathe for will I have to; is there a scream, an utterance if is conferred, may the latter be heard as one of suffocation; should thy admirer be not loved back for its admiration of thee in secrecy... If be it thine command, shall I perish for must I be doomed in the priority than be alive for mere a sake of levity...

  • alpha3 17w

    Try I to persevere in cumbersome an ambience...

    Lofty cliffs of the sweetest elixirs stood still, trudging past me visage of, planting kisses of a thousand marvellous Sylvan trees, ones that, standing alone in the grey of the early spring, did recite the vivacity in the rough; yet, was I conceived in the lights of the day that not could the poems of so immense a predilection invite the same out of me... And yet, might have I lost me consciousness to the hands of voiceless a strife, one that isn't but, vagrant a dweller in me core, for could I not have the touches of the fading winter palpable on the fingertips I so bore... Could the entirety not seem for me resuscitation as anything enough.

    Did I let thine love to the translucent clasps of the creepers of the poison, did I thus, let the winds, ones that did evince thine advent, slip through the voids from in betwixt me fingers my dear!

    Oh the holy Prividence! not was it me intent for do I embrace a thousands deaths for the mere pleasure of feeling the essence of having thine countenance beheld;

    Do I feel the winds of fury in lieu for traitor am I of thee, and have I conferred the clever kisses of betrayal to all of the entities did I swear on; Why! Must should thou heed it as bitter an infidelity... Why! Must thine eyes cease seeking me notice for no longer do I grasp me stance on the green of the lonely grasses to eavesdrop the glint of thine grin! WHY! thee ought to cease coming for art thou not to find me waiting in the meadows of the dusk of the twilight; yet, I long for thine advent, seeking thy splashes that cosset me thoughts at the window by aloof a street, for do I greet the reminiscence of thy memories in me.