i cannot write for **** anymore. i have lost my ability to compel. to even express. anything and everything i feel is hiding from me in some part of my body ive never reached because it knows what i will do if i catch it. rip out its inside like squishing a blueberry. just a quick meal until i am off to **** its friends. i am no tortured artist, just trying to shield. i cant wait to read this in a year and applaud for subtle progress, but me and i my friend are stuck in different muds.
Today I watched the tube And grew confused To the fact I became amused Daily abused Our mentality it saddens me This industry Called the media has an encyclopedia Of torment day in and day out Many shout Out their opinions when they are minions Through force fed Dominions religion Has gave them hopeless spirituality They look to the sky and still don't know why Its always chaos and another loss Roll the script Another day of slaughters grip And humanity slips Nature is talking no one is listening Too many walking and not watching Where they are going everyday showing Us another lie just to steal away freedoms Thanks to political idioms the symptoms Only worsen we are cursed within a curse Spiritually dead in a mental coffin Too often we are very soften coughing Up dough to make bread but it gets worse instead Higher inflation higher the crime nation The elite sit in happiness watchin us ***** But nothing to show put out our glow The vibrations of the earth are low so low That we have the intellect of a grass blades
There's a sound like a song Within every soul bound to flesh A symphony of notes that pour Like molten gold from the mountain Watching the wind that whistles Through boughs of emerald splendor Whilst spring veins run with life Surging through rock and earth Beneath roots of ancient standing Her stormy sky may roll and toil Let her hear your song, Let it be
When I speak to you I should not talk in riddles Use strange words and phrases If I mean to communicate with you In an ordinary way I have not I have merely asked you To weigh my experiences With your experiences That differs from mine I am baffled Who will clarify? You are the one I look up to As my friend and guide When the pressure is off I shall behold flowers again Admire their texture and fragrance Strum the sitar Take cognition of the spreading notes And sing songs Written by me only for you Say you will help me Do not say You do not follow me
Tom would try to abstain from that place in his brain and the ghost house hid deep in his mind where the shadows suggest there’s an unwelcome guest or a thing best kept lost Tom would find
from the dusty old clocks come the dead tics and tocs but the hands on the face have long stilled no alarm ever rings and no pendulum swings time itself was the first to get killed
from the bowels of that lair comes a creak on the stair and the scratching of long finger nails then a bang from the wall with a clang down the hall while the wind vocalises its wails
down it’s darkest corridor somewhere on the 13th floor is a long since abandoned damp room where a door black as night with a latch that's held its darkest corridor leaks a mist of green menace and gloom
and beyond that wood frame is the thing Tom won't name in the corner, it patiently hides a malevolent thought he had once fought and caught it's the room where his demon resides
and that loathsome old fright he’d locked up good and tight has a nature that’s shrouded in mystery why he holds it secure Tom won’t tell, he’ll demure only says ‘it's best consigned to history’
since he knows if it’s found then he will hear the sound of its voice through the hole for the lock and the key on his chain Tom would turn once again set it free so it could run amok
so he keeps the door closed and his feelings composed and his time in there tries to keep short since although it is small Tom can clearly recall all the heartache and havoc it wrought
the last time he’d passed through he had sealed it with glue to keep access and egress restricted then he nailed the door shut with some wood he had cut to forget that it ever existed
when he thought that he’d won that his labour was done Tom had vowed to return there no more but was so keen to win he’d nailed something else in so at best he could call it a draw
when it comes to Tom’s door he’s made mistakes before since that room also houses his heart when you love what’s been lost then a very high cost is a certainty right from the start.