Cutting through the darkness with a blade burning in an ominous yet in scarlet reddish tone, roaring as if it had the strengh of thunder.
The wielder in pure fury, swinging, swaying it around to pierce through the sinning gaze of the inhabitants of that place.
It is a true blade of banishment, viscious, without mercy or kindness,
raging evermore in an unending, continous rampage, gaining stengh.
Of course, one wouldn't expect any mercy but purgatory on this cruel and also blood drenched battlefield in which only sorrow is reaped.
But whereabouts of the heart already have been burnt away,
As the warped moon embraces the shadows of the fools,
The end had been brought near on that day which mortals fear,
Heat being spread with each slash, likely to set the soil ablaze,
Thus is the strengh of a sword which holds in a world of nightmares, likely to never desired to be ever seen before


~ Umi

The strength
You have when you open that door
Knowing you will be smacked right in the face
But you continue to embrace
The strength
When you speak to your inner demons
That clog your mind with continous
Negative statements
Stabbing the every window to happinesse
You release
You grab them by the neck
And remove their lifeless heads
The strength
When you enter a dark room
Lost and feeling unusual
You stop and
Become familiar with being lost
You are delusional
You are a creation that beats them all
Remind yourself to be humble
Charactersitics , and flaws get you in trouble
But you release the worries
And double your risks
Dont be in no hurry
You are full of strength
You're boundless to many successes
You are unlimited
I love you
Because you  are different

.i don't know any other music genre, where the bass is left alone, left exfoliating married to the drums, and the guitar? there's no such a thing as a rhythm guitar section in blues... the guitar is consrtantly married to solo... to a sense of orthography... best represented by ´ (the acute accent) without an o: to cream out a "hidden" u, i.e.: ó... or a cedilla (¸) bound to a c: ç to form the greek sigma (ς) - e.g. garçon... waiter, waiter: i'll just wait... that's how i see the blues guitar... the rhythm guitar isn't there, the bass is married to the drums... but the blues guitar keeps the rhythm in a "funny" way... pair up john lee ****** with lightnin' hopkins (on the piano)... and you... keep rhythm, by working solo accents into the rhythm set by the bass and drums... you rhythm by a continous sparring with the solo - you solo by ensuring your remain in the confines of chord, or something much -esque to a chord... milk, cream & alcohol... again and again: the blues... oh my dear the blues... where the rhythm of the guitar is kept with constant soloing... sometimes engaging with the bass and the drums for a reference check of rhythm... but mostly: solo the whole **** through... but it's not the sort of soloing associated with hair metal of the 1980s jerking-off for performance art piquance... sometimes the solos come in the form of chords... it's like i said already... layers:

         waiter -   garçon
                                 and garcon
                                               (¸)

blues guitar? the latter...
                                             solo accents...
rhythm of syllables: gar-çon
                              but mostly gar-con
                                                         ­  (¸)
since the bass and drums rhythm section
is so perfected in the blues,
the guitar is allowed to do what the hands
want owned by the devil...
        a thorough solo to keep the rhythm...
the one genre of music
where the solo works like a rhythm...
     instead of that in between section
of showing off
between verse chorus verse chorus solo chorus
standard of rock...

     another freedom given to the blues guitar?
the rhythm set by the vocals,
of repeating lyrics...
hell... if someone is going to sing
and play at the same time...
                  why explore lyrics as some sort
of narrative... ping-pong along
with the freedom of the itchy fingers...
by having no real verse,
and no real chorus...
                just a steadied momentum...
        and you really need to drink to appreciate
the blues...
                   just like all the hippies
will tell you that dropping acid enchances your
chances of enjoying the 13th floor elevators
or jefferson airplane...
              i don't know which is better these days:
jazz or blues?
sure as **** not rap...
                       and they say the slave trade
was all bad... sorry...
      without these west africans budding
in h'america... i'd still have a clarinet shoved
up my ***... or folk songs...
                  or mozart's woodwind imitating...
or vivaldi's *******' worth of spring...
yes, and we all know that Idi Amin was white...
wasn't he? who died peacefully while
under asylum in saudi arabia...
           Idi Amin was white! oh come on!
he was the last king of sctoland!
              on a side:
   they were picking cotton...
             well... at least they weren't working
the ******* coalmines... where they now?

ever watch that video
of milo
  yiannopolous:
       congresswoman
ilhan omar
           (d-mn)
       addresses
david horowitz's west
coast retreat?

where is the old milo
gone to?
anyone pick
up on the heavy breathing?

there's the stag ***
of only 2 years prior?
he's not here...

         i was never into making
videos,
only because i just liked
those japanese godzilla
movies from the late 80s...

and i'm still a sucker
for modern pop,
currently?
           mabel - don't call me up...
huge, huge sucker
for the expected reaction
to pop music...
synch. vocals and
a very limited circumstance
of lyrical poverty...

sucker... might as well
don a dunce hat...
elsewhere,
on the ibernian peninsula
it's also called
a *capirote...
and **** gets freaky...

i agree...
the northern crusades,
the polacks became christened
in 962...
   the teutonic knights
were ready
to explore lithuania...
we were about to allign
ourselves with them,
ergo: defend them...

            the concept
of reconquista came after
the crusades...
         i'm pretty sure it came
after...
           jihad is reconquista...
worded differently...
   is it? the crusades were one
thing...
     jihad = reconquista...
         the current form of jihad?
it's like crusading...
     to claim a jihad is to claim
reclaiming lost lands,
there must be some muslim genius
who could come up with
a counter term to jihad:
the jihad on the offensive...
rather than on the defensive...
we need some muslim genius
to come up with a conquering
ideology of islam...
   umayyad script...

i'm reading into the video
and i'm like:
is he angry...
       or is he simply scared?
all that heavy breathing...
maybe it's both?
   do i "think" about
throwing him from
a roof... are you sane?
as they say:
in a mad mad world,
the only sane people
                    are the madmen...

talk about memes finally
coming across "genetic"
mutation...
                why are all the "liberals"
and "progressives"
so surprised by mutation
creeping into memes?
doesn't that usually happen
with genes?
so... what's with all the outrage...
if memes exist outside
of the biological reality
of genes,
then... surely,
any counter-thought
from the est. order is equivalent
to a mutation, isn't it?

               so... what's the outrage
about?
    well if genes are going
to by hijacked by a mutation,
why would memes be immune
to a mutation,
akin to the o.k. hand sign?
you want a script?
i learned this at primary school,
but you need two hands
in tow:

   (right hand RH,
left hand LH,
   thumb TH
         index I
      ******* MF
        ring finger RF
pinky P)...

and now the motion

   RH (I + MF hand down) slap on the
the LH palm of the open hand...
   RH (I + MF hand up) slap
on the LH palm of the open hand...
RH (I + MF
               V shaped insertion
of the V shape into the LH's
side)
      clenched fist of RH slammed
on the open palm of the LH...
clenched RH with an extended TH
poiting toward caesar's favour
in the coliseum (thumb's up)
moving away from the LH open
palm...

   translation?
   why, don't, you, ****, off...
primary school,
some of the kid's parents
must have taught them this sequence
when their children told them
that some foreigner ******
was attending primary school
with them...

                   poor milo though...
notably in that video...
           he's either really angry...
or he's ******* himself...

i'm still left with this sign language...
i don't even know if it's correct...
a kevin spacey "conundrum"...
i'm not exactly going to, *******,
am i?
                knitting and picking
points of criticism...
   made easy:
   no niqab, no turban,
   no copper skin,
             no black skin...
no wonder my fellow countrymen
are leaving
with a massive F          and a U
from this island...
                    good for them...
if i was sane enough,
i'd also leave...
      but given that i'm also a dual-citizen...
well...
         milk the ***** for
her last worth...
    this language...
                    the people are another story,
but my lover affair with
this language is exactly
this.

Life is continuous
and things happen spontaneous
and simultaneous
of which makes it unable for us to control
now our best shot is to be cautious
not to be a victim of the spontaneous and simultaneous
tragedy of life.
Life is continuous,
even after death
yeah, our legacy lives on

These Red And Black Walls,
Have Seen My Tears To Many Times,
This Out Of Tune Piano,
Has Felt My Shaking Fingers,
Grasping Onto Its Keys For Comfort,
For So Many Months,
My Eyes Are Strained,
Bloodshot And Stinging,
For The Millionth Time,
This Ceiling Has Looked Down Upon,
My Sleepless Slumber,
For Hours,
This Air Has Inhabited My Heaving Lungs,
For To Many Meangless Lives,
A Lesson Learned,
But Not Rewarded,
Returning To The Material Plain,
This Night Sky,
Has Wrapped Me In The Darkness,
For So Many Breathless Seconds,
Why Does This Paint Brush Sit In My Palm,
When The Canvas Is Already Onyx,
Lament,
Lugubrious,
Loved,
Lost,
Why Do Thesw Feelings Spin,
In A Continous Loop,
Why Does History,
Repeat,
Over And Over And Over,
Why Does The Pain Repeat,
Over And Over And Over,
Why Must There Be This Orchestrated,
Cycle Of Falling Down,
Getting Back On Your Feet,
Then Falling Down Again,
Why Must These Faces,
See My Paled Face,
The One Sick,
Of The Circulation Of Secrets,
The One Sick Of The Lies,
The One Who Is So Broken,
Because Everything Good That Comes,
Is Ripped Out Of My Hands

21/11/3

the grass on the hill
speaks nothing until
our ears open with age
and the demons dark will
loses meaning

the soft melody
of piece sends a thrill
to the harbor of will
and causes a self
into being

action a skill learned
from birth to grave
we pay not attention
to continous pain
and we travel

I (fabrication)

Arthur Quincy folds his arms together
Sensing that interfering desire again!

Cant shake this fugue
Or forget the bad stuff he used to take/
Its a lingering presence/

The residual ash in his eyes blinking coffins & dazzling premonitions to the other smalltown poets writing in
Their kitchens to the sound of
Wheatgrass dancing outside in June and
A vacuum's warm considerate hum
From upstairs.

Post office on strike and
Cars being made with straw MAN he thinks
What happened here???
The day crossed out with faulty watches
And parkbench *** fantasies
& the crude laughing regular here
Sipping his tea
Wondering if he'll ever be as much a hit with the ladies as he was in the 1970s

Former beggarman Quincy lays himself out in an empty parking lot feeling invulnerable to the snow

As it collects over his shirt he whistles a happy tune from a date he went on before

The great sourness shelled him out of
Social fulfillment.

Now he keeps to himself
Making stories out of his bedroom and
Crying
crying for
His first love &
The laundry place shut down now wheres he gonna go/

Old Quincy used to smoke expensive tobacco but has since decided to save it for whenever he remarries. Or a brilliant morning where the neighbor sleeps in so he can sleep in too.

The view from his window is a continous rotation of wet crows who peer in and for a brief moment see the man's hands to his head making sure his hair hasn't fallen off yet..
House walls heavy with age
expose themselves occasionally
With an after image of past inhabitors,
The essence of their dry lips
Or olive cotton sweaters hanging from a rocking chair,
The enthusiasm of a corner lamp
Unappreciated by all
Past and present.

II (veteran romantic)

Arthur Quincy shelters his mind from strange ideas
Or conspiracy he hasn't "lost it" yet at least!

He has a hobby of painting the active society and
Expresses mood as colorful clouds
Floating out the skull of us to
Blend in an energy pollinating the
Deli and antique shop and yoga studio
V A P O R
to be swallowed by accident and catch the empathic disease of the
Depressed and jubilant simultaneous,
Makes easy living confusing and
Impossible to achieve in an absolute way!
He carries this belief
When interacting with others
Arthur Quincy understands
That balance is key to fulfillment
(so far as his life is concerned)

However, hardly anyone has seem him laugh and so assumes he doesn't have the ability to.
In reality he saves his joy and holds it to lift his lungs from despairing all day long to be released
Late afternoon in the comfort of home
As a display of feral bellows and supernatural ecstasy. This seems somewhat overromantic and exaggerated but someone has claimed to have had the rare pleasure of witnessing it!

Arthur calls the same address once a week, an anonymous voice speaks from the line opposite and while mysterious
It is clear he adores this voice. He adores the unacted subtlety and passion in this voice.
He smiles when he hears this voice which is simply enough.

Nearby those naive poets use Arthur as a muse sometimes too directly
Often referencing rumors of his hermetic life
Or retreating into his headspace
Unrealistically blowing his experiences into fable
And turning even his stirless sleep into a fabulous fruitbasket of language.

On the surface he appears forlorn and
Bitter with the winter gradually molding to his skin. Like anyone can tell you he has felt this before! Haven't you? But through all the stories and impossibilities of Arthur he is reserved in his
Knowing of important things. He is reserved in revealing that he not only knows how music sounds but where music comes from. He never reads the newspaper out of habit to feel in-the-know. He never lies about his feelings or his intentions.
Arthur exists in the
Glow of himself
And persists on breathing the glow of the street,
He is a wordless poet and veteran romantic.

III (funeral)

One day Arthur passed away a few weeks from Thanksgiving.
His name put on the paper he never read
And examined by a young girl
Who was only hearing of him now.

"Arthur C. Quincy/ 73/ passed away this Saturday. To be remembered as a quiet and misunderstood man envigored with the lightness only percieved by a rare and special few"

This description came as a surprise to those who knew Quincy as the claustrophic and uninteresting grump
Who's sidewalk idlings were unexplained and strangely hostile.

He saw the sky and its shifting canvas,
He saw the distant cats leaned on balconies impressed with the daytime ambiguity in firestations and libraries.
He would conjur a grin
From the passive conversation between a mother and her son.
He once saw two strangers fall for each other on the bus! A conjoined sun had bloomed between them.

Just a few attended the funeral. Upon inspection of his house following Arthur's death, someone found a will left for Helen Ashbury. A 55 year old woman who lived a three day drive away in Michigan..An identity to his weekly telephone fantasy!
It assumed all of his belongings to her, among them a military grade flashlight with his carved initials, a photograph of his time as a lumberer signed to "Peter! All the best in Costa Rica" and a copy of W.C Williams collected poems. Where folded on page 206 as part of the poem "Orchestra" was highlighted

"I love you. My heart is
innocent.
         And this is the first day of the world!"

Eventually Helen Ashbury received the news of Arthurs passing, as well as these things.
At the sight of the poem she wept,
the man she only knew through a voice after years of correspondence.
Upon being questioned she refused to explain their meeting in the first place. That was a special time, a time which the public would misinterpret or slander with rumor.
While Arthur wasn't widely loved in the town during his life, he was a popular topic from death on. As more information came out! Serving in world war II and his companionship with a parisian ***,
Who shared the wonder of the rooftop and spoke on the value of tea as a food replacement.
He once met a girl there at a dance and in a show electrified with lust they moved to Lucienne Boyer without the knowledge of who would win the war.
He had a son with her, Who resided in France most of his life as Quincy regrettably
Abandoned their situation to
Pursue other things, in his journal he admits his wish to have connected with him more, referring to his leaving as the worst mistake in his life.
All of this masked behind his firm neutrality. His walk lacking suggestion and his wrist without the delicacy of a painter (not that people knew he painted and so didn't pay attention to anything like that)

He was buried by noon. Some say his son was at the funeral. People gave their partings, and Helen wanted so badly to say goodbye to him. Instead left with his curios and his infinite voice.

IV (i'll be around)

The following year at a yard sale Helen came across a series of musty and used records. In the stack of them was a Cab Calloway compilation. Nestled in his desperate wailings and hi-de-** was the track "I'll Be Around" a slow and patient song that Arthur sang to her once. She recalled that night with ease, and felt her shoulders sink at the thought.
The album was $4, on the drive home she watched the trees shake with the wind, their leaves transluscently pale at the angle she was going. She could feel a weight there in her chest. The weight of him, of his heart supposing itself onto hers magnetically. She rolled down the windows and let the wind surround her, blowing her blonde hair back and forcing her to squint a little.

"I love you. My heart is innocent"

she recalled the poem he left for her. Of course not written by him but it felt as deeply personal as if he had.

"-and this is the first day of the world!"

Helen lifted a cigarette out from her purse. The drag extinguishing immediately as it's trail left the car. A bewilderment slowly consumed her.

Foot tapping on waiting room
Linoleum with the pace of test
Result nervousness.

Scent of mostly bad news
Layered on walls in dire need
Of paint and less tasteless

Decor.
Her name is a shot fired at
The shield surrounding her

Continous playback of worst
Case scenarios as her hand meets
That of the doctor

Whose eyes give less than
Nothing away.
Please sit down.

Sink like shards of shattered
Hearts, or float for decades in
Love with the worried man

Awaiting the same news with
Unsteady workman's hands
Around a ***** phone.

It vibrates, and the Doomsday
Clock in his chest skips ticks
And tocks, approaching a

Schrödinger's midnight or noon.
I'm in remission, she whispers.
Then nothing.

Nothing but two unison breaths
Carried across an umbilical
Cord connecting souls that just

Lost their full
Amount of
Weight.

This is Relief.
This is Sunrise;
Spring.

Two men struggle
For one womans heart
One has her physically
The other has her emotionally
And mentally
The one who has her physically
Wants nothing more
Than to love her
And for her to love him
In return
Though he doesnt understand
She has been hurt
Time and time again
He doesnt understand
Her withdrawals
Her fears
Her thoughts
Though he tries
Only to hit a dead end
Everytime
For she wont talk
The other man
However
Showing her a world
The one she always dreamed of
Stays next to her
Shielding her
Protecting her
Loving her
Listening to her heart
Crying when she feels pain
Anger when she feels agony
Her stronghold
When she doesnt have anything
To stay strong for
The other man sees this
In her eyes
So he tries to enforce his ways
Upon her
Trying to make her think
Her angel
Doesnt care for her
Like he does
However
She doesnt believe him
She refuses too
They argue everyday
About the other man
She defends her position
But the toll on her heart
Is much more
What is she hanging on too?
The piece of her heart
Where she feels safe
A memory of a smile
That melts ice
The arms that held her safe
Even if it was for a short time
Is it really so wrong to long for it?
For an end?
Of this continous
War of the heart.

Once again, we're set to head off,
all of our belongings cramped and boxed up.
We're hoping this will finally be our place to settle down,
but we'll keep our stuff like this,
just in advance for the next town.
It won't be our home and I know this,
we'll just have to leave again and again,
never finding a place that we'll actually fit,
but I'll keep these thoughts boxed up,
in order not to get my thoughts down.
We'll keep our stuff boxed up,
in order to be ready for the next town.
It's just a continous cycle of moving around.

An Electron carries the negative charge
Protons are the positive particle action
Forces: Gravity, Electric, Weak & Strong

Subatomic quarks discharge
Leptons,  Mesons,  Baryons
An Electron carries the negative charge

Degrees of freedom parameters large
Muons decay Bremsstrahlung;
Forces: Gravity, Electric, Weak & Strong

Electro magnetic radiations marge
Relativistic formulas spin in sychrotrons
An Electron carries the negative charge

Deceleration of negative hearts
Positron-electron; annihilation = photons
Forces: Gravity, Electric, Weak, & Strong

Elastic scattering of positivity is hard
And understanding the relativity of actions
An Electron carries the negative charge
Forces: Gravity, Electric, Weak & Strong

swalow that pill
like you swallow your feelings
fall down the hill
punch the wall
so it hurts as much as your chest
bruise because it feels better
because you can touch the pain that way
ride the rollercoaster down
and down
like its never going to break
and thats all it would take to be
over
and thats all youd want right now
instead of the continous fall
so tell me this
what did i do
whyd you go
when before you said you wanted to kiss me

You're my stress relief
In busy times
When everything
And everyone
Tumbles over one another

I take a moment.
Step towards the railing,

Feel my hair flowing
In the less than gentle breeze
Feel the continous rise of waves
Below my feet
Feel the low setting sun
Warming my face
Feel the sea salt on the rail
Underneath my fingertips

And I breathe.

insanity isn't beautiful
insanity isn't poetic
insanity isn't heartless
insanity isn't optional

the core of your being
slowly disintegrating into a continous abyss
is not dainty or flowery or romantic
it is pain and suffocation
it is not glass bottles of pills
or poems by willowy girls

insanity is staring with eyes glazed
and it is thoughts and thoughts and thoughts
it is not a choice
or wanting to be the devil
it is disgusting and burdening
it is not knives or guns
or ****** sprees

Now when you paint, you've got to do it in a correct way. But make sure not to leave any lines. Otherwise you'll have to cover them up. If however you do, make sure you do it smoothly. That way no one could ever see them and your mistake will be hidden*


Blink
Now your mind begins to think
Did they see
Where could they be
EXACTLY!
Maybe I'm overthinking
What does it matter.
It's all the same.
It's blended as best as could be.
No one will ever know of the ***** deed that I did.


Up and down
Continous in repeat
May I speak
I fell in weak
Now I reek
I be
No wait
I bleed
These lines of imperfection
But twist them to a misconception
Addiction to it
I'm used to it

**** IT, AGAIN??
No worries. I'll just fix it.  


But what do they know
They can't identify
Someone of wrong
That seems right
But honeslty
They seep
And they're seen
For a Reason.
I bleed these
Because the tension is to hard for me
The vessel is corrupt
And enough is enough
But it's too rough
When these lines bleed
A release
Of ease
To please
Me
Of everything
That others don't see
Is pushed onto me
I'm free
I'm relieved
Wait...
He seen...


WAIT PLEASE DON'T LEAVE

Lines that lie of his life
Of an addicts attic for a long time
Never enough
so bundle it up
Exposed to the lies
No more
I swear I'll try
But how can you say that won't
When you can go behind my back
And just take another pack
And just continue off track
From your pact


Ah forget it...it's useless

the grass on the hill
speaks nothing until
our ears open with age
and the demons dark will
loses meaning

the soft melody
of piece sends a thrill
to the harbory of will
and causes a self
into being

action a skill learned
from birth to the grave
we pay not attention
to continous pain
and we travel

trying to disappear

don't know how.

what i want i can't have, what i want doesn't want me, what i want i don't work hard for and what i can't have, i wish for.

i want a better way to express my contempt for the opposite illusion of this world. being bad will bring bad luck, being good will bring good luck.

only fairy tales and kicks in the back it feels to me.

im tired of waiting up for messages I'll never receive from people I'll never meet.

im sick of being in pain every month and knowing its continous unless i birth another useless me.

'one day it'll get better'

it could be 60 years and it never gets better. the world is ending and nobody cares, i might not be here to see it but id be glad when i depart this world.

i hope its not dark and cold. i hope its warmth and happiness, the feelings i want to feel, i hope they exist when i depart.

i don't want to leave so soon, whenever my heart decides it can no longer carry the pain, i will go.

Let me make it clear.

I am a shell of my former self.

The raindrop, unformed,
to be denied the pull of gravity.

But, if I close my eyes,
I can see divine assertions
of my former glory;
to be divulged and distributed
to everyone but myself.

Should I trust my senses
when all that's manifested
are insane twists of mind,
mazes lost in translation,
compasses circling upon themselves,
leading to unsettled destinations,
winding roads and battered shores
with waves eradicating
bits of my character?

When the floods come,
will we assign to the ark
creation
two by two?
Will we wait until the storm passes?

Behold me,
the solitary man!

Behold me,
a true island,
etched from rock
by the continous chisel
of earth's blood!

Vegetation untouched,
lacking maturity.
Earth unwalked,
lacking integrity.
Air uninspired,
lacking humanity.

But, if I close my eyes,
I can see the universe's plan
for my destiny,
placed on the shelf of life,
dusty and fossilized,
unmapped and unread.

I am not as I should be,
resisting the best within me.
Is it too late?
For me?
For me to retain my inheritance?

How will I find Polaris?
The skies remain murky
by the fog I have created.
Who will help me navigate?
Or will I continue to be the lost treasure
undiscovered?

THEORIES THAT WERE PRESENTED
ILLUSTRATIONS IN HOW YOU REPRESENTED
MY FELLOW GRADUATES
UNIVERSITIES HAVE TAUGHT YOU WELL
AS YOU LEAVE THROUGH THE DOORS EVERYONE YOU ASSOCIATE WITH WILL BE ABLE TO TELL
BUT IT IS UP TO YOU HOW YOU SELL YOURSELF
BE CONFIDENT, BUT DON’T DO LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE
THROUGHOUT YOU LEARNED THAT ACHIEVEMENT WAS HARD
BUT THROUGH YOUR OWN AMAZEMENT CAME ACCOMPLISHMENT

YOUR DEGREE IS YOUR PROVEN OPPORTUNITY
YET KNOWING NEVER LET DEFEAT TAKE CONTROL
YOU WERE TAUGHT TO BE CONSISTENT AND BOLD, AND WATCH AS YOU MANUEVER IN BEHOLD

YOU HAVE MADE YOUR PARENTS, GUARDIANS AND FRIENDS PROUD
LECTURES THAT WERE NOT EASY TO TAKE
IN FACT, PROFESSORS KNEW THE MISTAKES THAT YOU WOULD MAKE
BUT THE LECTURES YOU MATTERED STRATEGY BEING A CONCEPT
THE PURPOSE BEING TO ADAPT
BUT THROUGH IT ALL, THE UNIVERSITY PRODUCED MORE GRADUATES AND APPLAUD YOURSELVES

YOU PROBABLY THOUGHT IT COULDN’T BE DONE
BUT LOOK, YOU SEE YOURSELF, THE UNIVERSITY WON
I AM SURE YOU HAD SOME DOUBTS
IT WAS YOUR MIND BATTLING UNDERSTANDING AND THE POSSIBILITIES IN WHAT I AM WRITING ABOUT

YET THE UNIVERSITY ESTABLISHED EFFORT
A GOAL FOR TO ADAPT IN WHAT YOU SHOULD ACHIEVE AND HOW YOU SHOULD ANALYZE
TODAY, YOU NOW HAVE UNDERSTANDING IN HOW TO BE WISE
THAT SHOULD BE NO SURPRISE
YET YOUR INDIVIDUAL PROFESSORS WHO WILL HEAR YOUR NAME WILL SAY, ANOTHER GRADUATE I HELPED VENTURE OUT
YOU ARE THAT GRADUATE SO REJOICE AND SHOUT

THE MUSIC AND SPEECHES HAVE COME TO AN END
STEP OUT AND LET YOUR NEW CHALLENGES BEGIN
REMEMBER, YOU ARE THE UNIVERSITY BREED WITH INSTILLED AWARENESS TO PROCEED
STOP ONLY FOR A MOMENT, BUT LET WHATEVER ENDEAVORS BEING CONTINOUS
HOLD YOUR HEAD UP HIGH

DIGNITY AND HONOR AS YOUR PURSUIT
FEAR NOT, BUT MOVE FORWARD
YOU PROVED EDUCATION OF YOURS3LF, BUT BE CONFIDENT IN YOUR PERSUADE
I SALUTE YOU TODAY WITH TOMORROW BEING A NEW DAY, A TIME TO REFLECT WITH FOOTSTEPS TO PROCEED AND MAKE THAT MOMENT BECOME YOUR CREED.

When I look into your eyes,
Your soul commands my attention.
There is calm reverence that comes over me.
Every word you utter is etched on the walls of my mind, as if my mind was a pyramid and your words the hieroglyphs

When you walk,
there is an overwhelming abundance of beauty.
Every movement you make displaces the air, like the wake left behind by a boat in water.
Each step you take, creates a new dance, a new song, a new chord never heard before.

When I hear you laugh,
it reaches in and it hugs my heart like standing in the midst of open flames, except,
they have not the authority to burn or harm.
They have only been given the privilege to disperse warmth.
The echo of your sound is permanently recorded and played back on a continous loop.

Your smile,
unlocks doors in my soul never opened before.
****** locks that other keys have tried to open but to their dismay, were never successful.

When I smell the breath of your scent,
it enters my veins, pumps through my heart, leaving me in a state of euphoric pandemonium.

Your unadulterated elegance,
Eons ahead of any mortal being.
In your humbleness, you fail to see it.
You are void of any hint or clue as to the extraordinary being that you are.
My mind lacks the ability to comprehend all of the wealth that is in you.
If all that is precious in the universe was forged into one body, it would stare at you in the mirror.

Day becomes night
Night becomes day
I rise
Then fall
My pride is strong
Later I’m self continous
And depressed

I raised my hopes
Instead I’m left with doubts
I can’t resist
The Scales always turn
Right or left
But never twist
So don’t try to twist my life around
Unless you want to make me cry
As you hurt me inside

Walk for that Shocker
Talk for that chopper
Sooner or later
You gone need a Doctor
What's the word
What's the own
Catch a thrill
Just like my bones
Mass isn't space
Space ain't line
Time to go sets
of a separate race
Stop hold the presses
Wait. Hold. Still.
I'm still a mess.

Behold, the strength of character
Defines vivid intentions of morality!
Absorbing the realization in reflection.
Vicious minds limit us by seperation
To weaken the connection!

The demons that sleep in the darkest mind
Does Not have ability to hold us prisoner!
Stand tall and hold your head proudly!
The soul is full with colors
of who you are!!
Glorifying in a continous multitude
of beneficial purposes...
Every single one of you...
Represents beauty...magically
By every comprehensive definition!!! If it is a MUST to become whole.
Allow every belief to come
together to connect all
Have faith even in wild dreams
Pieces gather to fall into place

power bond with
The true self cannot
be destroyed or matched!

It only shall be obtainable
Through the desire
For a purifying transformation
empowered by devine energies.... Alas, the darkness even in the
Brightest moments will haunt you
conspire the rotation
Wondering eyes watch
Silently in fading skies...
Mind, heart and soul unison
Blood bounded to Gaia's time

Thou shall fly freely from
troubles by breaking grasp
From all harm done
Opening up to the sleeping happiness
Give liberty to everything
Within your subconscious!! It's time you answered to your calling.... Your blessing to the universe
holds extraordinary gifts
It's reasonable to be afraid
Do not give in....
Do not give up... -DESCOVIA & C.J

Feb 12 2019 copyright (c)

Funny how our memories
Are recovered through
Nature
Graveled trail to echo
The beat of your step
While birds chatter
From hanging branch
Sun peaks through trees
Leaving shadows to chase
On the chalky ground
Smells fresh as the
Beginning of time
A bubbling creek
Renews the senses
And plants new memories
Oh for the continous
Repetition
Of a symphony
Cascading with Life