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 Oct 2016 Illya Oz
Michael Smith
It's in words, my masters' glory
Yet many think it's just a story

Inherit I, the sins of man
It's all a part of my masters' plan

To get the things I think I need
I'll cultivate the serpents seed

Caligula, the king of mayhem
Seek the good man, go and slay him

****, and ******, endless plunder
The righteous frown, they start to wonder

Is He there? Faith can weaken
That's the dark mans' flashing beacon

He works magic through the winds
Do you wonder how the madness ends?

It's in words, my masters' glory
Yet many think it's just a story
I wrote this poem about 30 years ago, and had not thought about it for some time. I walked into my bedroom today and picked up a piece of paper on the floor, and it was this poem. That's pretty weird.
one night
as I was laying on my bed
words keep on popping out in my head
like a lyrics of a song
that repeats without an end

i let it be
i let the letter, word, phrase
surround and trap me like a maze
but I was just there on my bed
my eyes open as if in a daze

i let the words bounce and jump
on my head, on my body
on my pillow, on my blanket
on my bed, in my room
on the ceiling, on the walls
faster, faster and faster

'til I can't take it anymore
so I get down my bed
pen and paper is what I get
to calm the words that bounces in my head

as i wrote everything down
it feels like I'm draining out
like a shoe that was worn out
and everything became calm
the calmness after the storm
like a very comforting psalm

so as the ink rests on the paper
and the words lay down on the sheet
i tucked all the phrases in
kissed them good night
as I finally get some good night's sleep

so that night
you'll see me sleeping silently
beside the paper with a resting poetry.
It actually happens a lot to me. Not just when sleeping, even when I'm taking  a bath or doing chores or whatever I do the words just pops out. It sometimes stops when I let it slip, but more often, it will distract me too much until I write it down. Well, maybe that's the life we all live.

October 10, 2016
 Oct 2016 Illya Oz
Drunk poet
Somewhere between lost and totally lost,
There we became unconscious,
Indeed! Really lost,
Daunt like an evening shadow,
Then my breathe seemed shallow,

But, we poor men in our poverty,
Carried away with ample manifestos,
I objected to that saying,
Very naive like a girl in her puberty,
Who know only how to wash her toes,
On the contrary, she is dying,
So I strife,
Striving in our emaciated life.

Then just like a cow
Led to the abbatotior,
They ruin every sector,
But we were fools in mere ecstacy,
They made us believe colonization was necessary,
But it was a foul,
Now we beg leniency,
Unlike spendthrift of our currency.

Now we cry for antidote,(change)
Disregarding That oat,
But through what doors?
The west?
Perhaps East?
Probably the south?
Or from the graced North?
What doors?

That which no writing could criticized,
No satirical work could correct,
Indeed! The best materialized,
But speaking of the change, what earth?

But pray a calmed storm,
Even after our hypocrisy,
And false democracy,
When will the truth come,
All is well, the mother had told,
But I guess sometimes the truth is best left untold.
 Oct 2016 Illya Oz
Drunk poet
Like a flight of thousands,
Innocents in their innocence,
Through seas and lands,
By our our hands we made them
Pilot.
Conscious and sane,
Whey flew us with hidden plot,
The sky speak to us.

The whom we trust,
Called to serve us,
They made us carry their cross.

Like fortress with self-destruct,
And when it goes, they never go down
With it,
They, they are corrupt!
Channel golds and pearls beneath.

They sabotage our economy,
Made us peasant,
They sabotage you and me!
They want every pleasant.

Unfaithful masters,
I charge of faithful servants,
With their bad characters.

Looting things for their unborn generations,
The have no heart,
Booting our generations,
But will they say after earth?

Father!
My daughter called,
When shall be free?
When will we eat on the
Dining table
service failure the ***** will offer
there's something medically askew with it
the usual role is proving so unfit
a second chance in a transplant's proffer
another dies to bring life back again
wellness being redeemed by precious gift
the recipient receives a big lift
living's joy restored out of the rain
someone's kind donation affording breath
so that the period of existence stays
a healthy liver performing its job
for not to have this giving there'd be death
the bestowment allows those future days
gratitude felt within a person's cob
 Oct 2016 Illya Oz
Drunk poet
I might be able to connect to you
In you yoga,
But I must confess my love for you
Is mega.

I might not be able to sine the world,
But can the sun even shine your world?
Believe me my love will,
It can make your dreams real.

I might not be able to give life,
But even knows you're mine,
Devil fathom you're my wife.

I might not be able to protect you
Like superman,
But your love has made me the batman,
It gives me wings to protect you.

Poverty is vulnerable around us,
I will make you ride on the best horse,
Life is auspicious with us.

I might not be able to take you around the
World,
But you will always have my word.

I promise never to make you cry,
No tears except that of joy,
Will come from your frangipani face,
I know we are many in this race.

I promise to keep my promises,
No blemish on you, from head
To toes,
Dying for you is greatest luxury,
Please accept my manifestos.
Be there for the children
They need you in their life
Guide and show them the way
Help them see the light
Encourage them always
Give them tender-loving care
Lift them upward when they are down
Just be there
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