My poetry feels dull and lifeless

I cant write better than my own death
How do I compete?

And he whittles his stick
And it whittles him back
They've done it before
But they're glad to be back
He's fletching an arrow
He's making a bow
It feels a bit different from decades ago,

But he has the Wind
Like never before

If you
Were dead-set on collapsing
It's just something that happens

This won't be easy and it's
Gonna take some time

And let the poison pass by

Because God knows there's enough up above
And inside me
Inside you is the sky

What's wrong with you is that you are in pain.

Absurdity flies in the face of dignity
And wrinkles its red nose before the break.

I'll never understand the warring factions or their fame.

What's wrong with you is that you are in pain.

If we suspend two versions of the truth,
Calamity will mark the store of grace.

If nobody is wrong
Where souls don't get along

What's wrong with you is that you are in pain.

What's wrong with you is that you are in pain

What's wrong with you is that you are in pain

What's wrong with you is wrong

What's wrong with you is with

What's wrong with you is that you are in pain.

You could take me down for my lack of culture,
I haven't read,
I'm not practiced or professional enough,
I'm just such an ogre.

But baby, I'm the reason for the season.

You don't get Marx without me.

You don't get Sartre without me.

And you don't get paid without me, babycakes. Hah.

Maybe I should have done some things differently here or there, but there's really no metric to judge that notion against so we're kind of mucked on that front.

However suffering, like everything else, has to have a shape and a color to it. The fallout of my love is going to find its way into my senses and to the middle of my brain whether I like it or not. You could say it builds character, but I think it just destroys it.

Remember that I write, girl. I don't really read all that much.

I am the man who reads the burning book.

Stop looking at me funny.

Walk out on the edge of your eye
And see the edge of what there is to see
Do you see anything at all?

Do you see something in between?

I thought it was good,
I thought it was bad,
I don't think anything at all.

I'm careful not to think anything at all,
No judgments here.

I haven't thought enough of things,
Now I'm unprepared.

Complain to all the local gods that their system is wrong.

Amend the current methodology and ignore the howling redux reductionist egalitarian demon.

We are not equal, I was born to live.

Who are you impressing?
It makes sense that you should be average
If your theories really hold up.

Self-defeating...
We have to work backwards
But where does it get us?
We just embarass ourselves

And how did you manage to be embarrassed all by yourself?

Then I hobble to the placid lake of my soul
And cast forth prodding eyes

Are you really silent and void of judgment?

Are these murmurings really just illness?

When we come forth from nothing, illusion is no comfort in the face of howling demons

No solace as we're torn from our bodies and any sense of sanctuary

I want myself to know I'm not wrong,
That it comes on automatic,
That we can't escape the fire but are not a mistake
Just because there's no option but suffering and death.

I want myself to know and forget
Be proud and be humbled
When security fails
I won't be alright but I'll be... I'll be...