I wish it could be simple as that,
An old man wearing a hat

And yet, I am stuck with his pension funds,
And the way his sons and daughters run;

Like an old age home stuck with seizures,
I like my paints measured,

My skin itches, it cannot set me free
Like water colours are meant to be.

I like control and precision,
Just like their parent’s decisions.

Beyond the east the sunrise,
Beyond the west, the east;
There is no wonder, thirst,
Only monetary schemes,

The traveler in me seeks no streams;
The mind only hops on taxes and pills
Scheme, Marry or ****

BLOWHORN, BLOWHORN HENRY!
Anne creeps up in your philosophical nightmare
The headless chicken,
The world is in despair!

My shoes, these shoes,
Not biblically on wine,
Give me another soul Balthazar,
I'm running out of time

Balthazar, my Balthazar
Dear, Dear neurotics!
A cat and a mouse shall not make the house!

Dear Michelangelo,
shape David again,
maybe my nose, maybe my head,
Maybe my eyes!

Tell Da Vinci I am running out of my mind!

Do I have teenage hormones?
Because the inadequacy is kicking in,
It's the same old hour, the familiar claustrophobia
Of a dead moth

As he pushes the rock against the mountain,
I too am the same
Familiar faces in new carcinogens,
Familiar tasks, familiar name;

A black hole for the soldiers
As between the Russians and Ukraine,
I fight with my livestock
I fight to stay insane

I seek no poetry,
poetry is for the dead,
Men still want a dead wife
And for his dinner his wife's head

My leaves of clothes of wool and nicities
Are my cunning way to lure you into the future
The future starts with I,
F is for fathers who are mothers in disguise

Dear men, Dear Sir
I do not seek to abide your faith,
To be women is not about my *******

Sit down young man, you sound like a cat cry for a wolf's tale
You joke around about my future
When you are a joke as well

You push a girl child into another man's eyes
And then cry about a feminists' tale
You rupture her nurture, make her La Lorona,
See her haunt you in your dreams

DEAR SIR, NO NEWSPAPERS,
NO BUTLERS FOR YOUR SEAMS,
No man's cry is a woman's dream!

Peace be with you and your picket fence of excrements!

"Et tu Brutus?" The heavens sighed
My soul was cast to depths united,
Where angels fell, with wings unmade,
'Twas her who held the serpent's *****

She called me forth to her dark bed,
Where shadows whispered of the dead.
I was the Lion, fierce and wild,
She was the lamb, a fallen child.

Yet in her eyes, no soul I found,
But voices that in madness drowned.
How dare she rise where angels weep,
And through my heart her poison creep?

The Mind, a storm, gate of fire,
Where Heaven's breath and Hell conspire.
The ancient ones, they wept and spoke,
Of mankind's curse, its sacred yoke.

My soul, no beast of earth's domain,
I cast aside the primal chain.
"Though art no man, but God's own wrath!"
The stars cried out along the path.

"Et tu Brutus?" the stars repeat,
As serpents coil beneath my feet.
'Twas she who struck with heaven's *****,
In innocence, my soul betrayed.

The rolling guilt in fiery flame,
The ancient war, the endless blame.
I stood as Satan's child reborn,
In light and darkness both I'm torn