A place to sit, to insist the other exist.
Instinct ink; a brief connection to persist the other exist.
A place to relieve myself from this brief connection.
Instinct ink; a recollection of all things beneath.
A place to sit, and the smell at my feet reminds of all the visits paid my grave state.
I insist, a place to exist would be eventually diseased or the others' seat.
I hate myself and everyone else for discussing my health.
I self service the help, first I self service myself heaping portions of self help.
Maybe, above all we, recall that disbelief with humorous forgiveness.
Maybe, a place to sit, to insist the other exist, is the exact form.
Instinct turned ink on walls now speak for all things.
A place to exist would rejoice in the moments known love could damage my grave state.
Copyright © Jonathan Michael Conlon