The Feeling of The Aspiration

I have ambition, tugged by determination, suffering from their inadequacy. Most are living the insecurity. I grapple with this, eating the grand debate, weathered by waves and storms. Some reason inside an acorn, knocking against it, trying to unlock the message. The core doing its mopping. The soul unfitted, against the ocean, sea turtles just planted what they will never see. So luminescent, so chemic, identity is spoiled, like unruly, with definition bleeding into a cloth. The wrath of misfortune, the tumble and dry, the rage in striking against the iridescent wall; battling the great redundancy, fighting the indecent inadequacy, raffling the undercurrent of deep blue waters. The hustle of the tremendous loss—those streams against the skies, the falling mood-rings, the collar with the tie, the knot, the bow, the arrows. If into a shadow, to see a similar smile, or steep in a chill, made in darkness, flooded in essence—the humanity of the loss, the capture of the ghosts, seated in a room, subtle disturbance, an avalanche of miracles. At a button, the lady too wise for being smart, too smart for being remarkable, at some planet, with one trigger. So much spinning—as into orbit, saturated by silence, at love with propensity, so casual the last million loses. Too exhausted to see, rapid, rolling into devastation, accursed, or blessed, by greater the treasures. I have ambition. I have said nothing. The reader, too, has ambition. I have a drive. I have said nothing. The reader, too, has a drive. In sacrifice, the planet is dying, the soul has felt things differently than others. It races and clashes and skids through intersections in the clouds. The self is trying to accomplish the impossible.