I have no search to come to me, no instance of definition in trust of wild expression of my thoughts whilst squirming, heavy, swimming to walking in the new mud of flesh come first creation of human emotion, like sun the breeze floating between the mind; the static of every creature, my human thought is your human thought is his human thought, in blood, in poison, in instinct.

Grows the weed that kills across every single plain, in every tousled piece of earth in every inch taken away, can we say we renew and create? Is creation of the same tiring acts and objects to be considered the type of progress that is worthy of death?

No sadness is cast in my eye or regret on my mind but the warmth of human skin is no different than the warmth of animal, and the beauty of you and I no different than that of the growing earth. I take no passion in my discrimination against my own, passion should be reserved for joys.

So I come to this; all of man are weeds, all animals are weeds, all plants are weeds I see no difference. We take and grow as much as we can, we are deceptive in how murderous we are down to our veins, We have no instinct for regard of those who are not ours.

We our only guiltier because we can be guilty; that is what holds us to higher responsibilities.

A knowledge known is not fact or useless but I wish I could go beyond my knowledge and hold to the collective responsibilities.

Please ignore the poor grammar, I had no time to edit.

Small Edits:

Oh and didn't something dreadful happen? As I stumbled out with my sleeves all down and around my wrists, breasts bare and bouncing to the chill of the air, and the boys, the boys, out in the street covered in masks pitch black against the midnight dark in the street, the masks nothin but tight sacks, so black as the iris, covered their faces as one lay moaning on the ground, I could here his splashing in the water and dirt, the other stood there and stared into the blank of night through his thick cover, a veil, to keep him hidden? To shame, to confuse, to break, to suffocate? I wanted to cry out, I was shaking my head so hard that my neck was aching. I stomped my feet to act in simplicity, I threw myself against the wooden door frame to feel pain, I didn't know how to manage anything beyond the actions of a child and with my tiny hands I grabbed at my skirt and began to tear it.
Why?

To open, to shut up and free at once, to blind, to empower, to force, to focus, for clarity?
Strong hands, he had always had strong hands, comfortable in every situation his hands of confidence of generosity, his virility and heart in strong hands. Strong hands I could not see now, the night had covered them in their own masks. He stood there and stared, I do not know if his eyes were opened or closed and it does not matter he stood staring on. His pale skin like ice to me in the mid winter cold, his back, his thighs all visible as he was sparsely dressed in boxer shorts. No shoes, I could here the slap of his bare feet once he stirred. He left, he left me, he left his brother and walked away. His shoulders held bravely, his back straight, his head with gentlest tilt to imply a smirk, his steps large, he walked away, he walked as a man who thinks the world belongs to him because he has nothing.
I would not follow him, I had no reason to, we were nothing much to each other. But when he left it was like he had come at me with blades up and down. I kicked, I kicked everything I could reach, I hit my own self, on my head, along my legs, I stood there flailing.
I was all out of breath and the blood running through my veins felt hot. The sting of the air kept my eyes open and as I watched the boy squirm on the ground, I was soothed, their was something rhythmic and delicate about it so that I was calmed by the entrancing figure.