It sickens me
To think that my ancestors were raped
By greasy, shaggy men from the north
Who burned down their houses
And pilfered their precious possessions
It sickens me
To think that I am but the last domino
In a centuries long trail of bastards
It sickens me
To think that my father is a bastard
His father was a bastard
And all my children will be bastards
And it sickens me
To think that I am so proud of that fact

Within my polluted veins may be found
Perhaps only one drop of foreign blood
But that drop of blood is from an ancient heathen deity
The years have diluted it but still it fills me
With a blissful rage, my poisoned skin tingles
With the most wonderful of furies
With every beat of my tainted heart the capacity
To duel with giants and annihilate armies
Resonates around my body
I feel I have the power to rend heaven
And lacerate the landscape of hell
With just my adulterated fingernails
Because I am the pink diamond
In the pile of precious stones
I’m impure, and I’m worth nothing to the masses
But I’m just as indomitable as my kin

So if any of my fellow white men
Strut round claiming to be pure, know this:
I will take a torch to your hall, hew your head
From your chauvinistic shoulders, and hang it
From my gateway as a warning to those who dare to disbelieve
That we are all somebody’s bastard

What is music?  The heart rendered?  What life
Is to a dream?  The eyes object in rapture?
What is the soul's shell, but a half note hollow
Contained with music?  Art is cold—
Echo, mute repetition, poor traits for nine
Dead muses of memory, a fiction after
The fact, nor can there be a shelf for credence
Without cadence.  And though the painter's eyes
Remember rainbows colour, his hands forget
All, save black and white.  Though the sculptor sees
The vein of nudes within the sparkled rock
That stone, still, looks back with grieving half-
Heartedness.
                         The chambered heart is beating,
The droning gales are sighing, but like the one bird
Who flies three ways— before and after song,
My middling wings pronounce two kingdoms part
Music.  The felt fingers of rain consort with well-
Tempered earthly quays and everywhere there is
There is the bright organic instrument—
And actuality is sidled with dead metaphors.
Music is but purest feeling given air to,
The mind soothed, the spirit seduced and a quell
For ache of heart, music is pure making—
Existence itself, another plain, a well dressed
Traveler, a border with life—
Body and spirit, who hand in hand and each
With each, are bound as wings are paired;
One flyer soaring.

Whenever I look in the mirror
I'm not sure what I'll see
Because the person staring back
Isn't really me

The person in the mirror
Is nothing but a lie
Doing what people want
And mimicking those near by

The makeup that she wears
The fact that she's lost weight
All just makes her look like them
The people she used to hate

The way she acts and talks
The things she'll do and say
It's absolutely horrible
She's truly gone astray

Then the smile on her face
It's the biggest lie of all
Because I know deep inside
She feels like she will fall

So I ask you this question
And please, think it through
Is your reflection staring back
Still the real you?

We sell two albums on itunes if you search loud with love  



with music on your mind
everything is fine

the looks which are deceiving
dont detour the fact your breathing

and the fun you have, it's principle
face the fact, what you look at is just some random occurance

i get thru my days with coffee
couple packets of sugar, half and half, sometimes tea

i convince myself I'm nothing
but with music on my mind I'm something

I lalalalala through my job
fake it thru the day, surprised I been there this long

words will get me out, I'm positive
it'll just take some hard work, time, luck, and overcoming obstacles

but I can do it
you can do
just use song to get you through

I will start with a hello.

A handshake, an introduction, a beginning.
Then it will grow,
from an exchange of names
to playing mind games and discussing our fames.

You've always been the talker,
the initiator, the instigator.
And I; the listener, the adviser and friend
to give you a silent prod in the right direction
when the sidewalk comes to an end.

I take no form; no shape, no size.
I'm not the truth, nor the lies.
I am not a human, or a living creature.
I have no body parts, or any features.

But I can think, sure I can.
And I can act as any other man.
The reason why I still exist
is not meant to be a mystery
buried deep inside your inner abyss.

In fact, it lingers right in front of you
and dances before your eyes.
It isn't meant to be shocking news;
or an unforeseen surprise.

Even if you can't see me,
I'm always here as company;
the guest that never leaves.

And even if I wanted
to pick up my shoes,
get up and move,
my nonexistent feet
would stop me in my tracks
and I'd be heading back to your street
fast, fast, fast.

I'd be back before the count of two;
and if you wonder why,
ask yourself this:
why is it that we've never parted,
or even said goodbye?

Here is my answer to you:
We are bonded together by super glue,
joined by the brain, the heart and soul, too.
If that sounds confusing, I'll give you another clue;
you live in me, just like I live in you.

I am poetry;
metaphors and similes,
dotted i's and crossed t's.
So fill my cup with the wine of your words,
swallow me whole and be free as the birds
flying through the endless sky
as clouds and airplanes pass you by.

Stanzas and rhymes will flow down your throat
like that of a current, which carries a boat
and takes it to its destination;
the end goal, the aspiration.

They'll travel down with ballads marked in cursive,
with scribbled sonnets and haikus and verses.
Then when they finally reach the heart,
you'll know that it's no longer just words but art.
Because your poems are colours that brighten the walls
by splashing blank canvases and bathroom stalls.

I am poetry;
the pencil and the paper.
But you are the hand, the thinker, the maker.
So paint the world a picture
through your beautiful literature
because your words are your wand
so show us the magic and create the bond
between the fixed and the broken,
the sleeping and the woken,
the written and the spoken.

Pick me up and let me scrawl
down your words and then install
them into the minds of everyone
and they'll be stunned by the
brightness of your sun.

You'll shine with radiance and glory
so keep on telling your story
because your words are your life,
your victories and your strife.

You are the creator, the teacher, the reverend;
but this time, I will subside
because you are the guide,
and your words are your legend.

My Ideal Man:

1. Watch nerdy movies with me, you'll get my heart quicker if you love Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, or superhero movies along with me.
2. Be a Bruins fan please. Or at least a hockey fan, but Bruins is preferable.
3. Be kind. Don't do things just for yourself. If you see someone struggling help them.
4. Be patient. My family and I are nuts, and I'm so sorry about that, but we love with our whole hearts, and you'll never find people who care for you more, or will do anything for you.
5. Tolerate my musical preferences. I listen to quite a wide range of music, so bear with me.
6. When I'm sick, just let me watch a Disney movie, give me space (because when I'm sick I feel far from pretty, and have a tendency to not want to be around people) and I will love you forever.
7. Have faith. You don't have to be ridiculously religious, but believe in heaven and God.
8. Please have a functioning moral compass.
9. Don't question the TV shows I watch. (Ex. Game of Thrones, Project Runway, Friends)
10. Have a good relationship with your parents and siblings.
11. Be a dog lover, I'm going to want dogs when I live with someone (and I'm so sorry we can only get hypoallergenic ones)
12. Accept the fact that I tell my mum almost everything. If I know, likely she will know unless you make it very apparent that you don't want anyone to know.
13. Don't lie. Just don't.
14. Don't cheat. That should be obvious, but I've been through it before and I don't think I could handle it again.
15. Yes I'm a child when it comes to the little things in life. I love ice cream sundaes, coloring, Spongebob, and most adolescent things. Let it be.
16. If you have something bothering you, talk to me. Communication is key and I can't read minds, no matter how hard I try.
17. Be able to laugh at yourself, I do all the time at myself because most of the time I know I'm foolish.
18. Never underestimate snuggling. Unless it's really hot out.
19. Be spontaneous. Lord knows sometimes I do some strange things for no reason, but as long as they bring joy to someone or yourself, then do it.
20. Love with your whole heart.
growing list

See this is where I clear my mental
Cuz it's essential
Clean all the junk out of your knowledgeable box
Like fresh clean socks bleach with Clorox
I need to be clean
So I sit and look at Gods creation
As I fathom that it could save a nation
All hail thee Christ Jesus
Many people say they love him to pieces but never sit and marvel and His creation
Conquering king to civilization
Causing many allegations
No persuasion to the right side
So I'll abide in my many complex as I marvel at Gods creation
Tribe altercation to seek multiplication
So I try to change in the right clothes
Not naked to the fact He can still see me
Soul complete me
All I want is to bask in Gods creation

We exist within spheres
Bubbles of perception
Roughly circular ripples of both know knowns and known unkowns
And then there
Right at the edge of these spheres
Just outside the very last shred of our understanding of how the world works

Is how the world really works

I've seen it
Only briefly
And not because I'm smarter or more enlightened than anyone else
But rather because I do better drugs than most
And while my short term memory is fucked
I have managed to bring back an excerpt of my journal
And it reads:


"This world is a process of conflict
A construct begat by the clashing of two equal and opposite forces
One of the forces
Is called Fate
And the other
Is called Choice
And the sum of existence consists of everything that falls in between

And the really fucked up part
Is that we already know this

But life
Has affixed us with blinders that force us to see
Everything
So much so, in fact
That a sense of 'self'
Is considered hedonism in most circles

But the soul
Does not have a default setting
Pain
Is not an illusion
And despite what you may have been told
There is no compelling evidence to suggest that there isn't another world on the other side of my mirror

The are no empty spaces
Only effects that have yet to be caused
There are no reflections on lake shores
That is merely the image of God

It rains and rains.
Day after day.
Night after night.
Water falling from the sky.
Soaking the floor below.
Washing up the dirt.
Confining people to their shelters,
Giving them time to think.
Are there thoughts meaningful or not?
They are in fact theirs to own,
But do they bore themselves?
And the rain suggests this meditation.
As the sky leaks,
Covering the plants,
Giving them life,
While the birds bathe,
And the mushrooms flourish.
Yet, people still think only of themselves.
They dont wonder abnout the birds,
Or the mushrooms.
They worry about vanity.
They worry about relationships,
Retirement, family, health, sports.
They do nothing but worry.
But few can appreciate the rain
Few can let their mind at ease
Listen to the droplets,
And not worry.