I think sadness is beautiful because
I see this life I carried without the buzz.
I certainly drank a lot bringing death quicker,
But I couldn’t help it with this arsenal of liquor.
As a kid that smoked too much cigarettes,
And read enough Vonnegut, as much as he gets,
He felt happiness for too long and forgot what
It’s like to feel like ****. Chasing a girl’s ****,
Sinking himself into the sea of delirium
And avarice, his life isn’t far from our requiem.
Without divine servitude, our lives are free. Yet,
We are shackled by the fortitude of my creative debt.
It’s they we should blame, those that beat our brains
With damaging dictions, leaving our souls with stains
That can’t be washed away even with medical bleach
That doctors syphoned into my body, as far as they reach.
I am feeling anger, which will be soothed by my impending
Sadness; the finale of my emotional vicissitudes. It’s ending,
But not until I remind you that we can only feel happiness
When we allow our decaying bodies to sometimes accept sadness.

Somewhere under the mundane moon
is an Arab smoking ***** on the sand
and next to him is a beauty with a scar
dancing despite the presence of God.
Her silky red dress swirled like divine fire,
And until sunrise all she will do is dance.

Close by is an Indian who cannot dance
as he is shackled, though his skin is pale as the moon.
He watches the beauty spin and turn across a distant bonfire
to which he tries to get closer to,away from the freezing sand,
but could not resist watching her hips that moved liked the way God
created flowers, perfect in every way-even with a scar.

The ****** suggests the Arab to give her another scar
if her body grew too fatigued to dance.
His evil eyes gazed upon the girl,thinking he was a God.
But even in this darkness, the presence of the moon
hung in the sky, observing all that lingered on this sand
and then it gleamed its light brighter than fire.

Finally the Indian is warm near the fire,
but grew enraged when he sees the Arab giving her another scar
so he lifted himself up and off the sand-
even a goddess can’t perpetually dance-
then he ran towards the Arab to which the moon
encouraged by shinning the light on the false God,

making it easier for him to see. As he run he prays to his God
the deity of
Koti, the lord of the core and fire
to give him the power to defeat evil.The mighty moon
heard his thoughts so it asked Koti to spare the beauty from another scar.
Koti, in debt from the moon agreed to help as he himself loves to dance,
so he set the Indian’s soul ablaze by sending power from deep beneath the sand.

The Indian ran up the dune where the sand
felt heavier than ever, carrying him down, but his God,
Koti, blessed him to rescue the beauty that can dance,
but the Arab had already pulled out his musket with fire
coming out of its barrel and now it was the Indian who would get the scar.
His chest was pierced, but he kept running because the moon

gave him all it could and Koti shared his fire
to punish the evil- the false God-
because it isn’t right to see only one Indian dance under the moon.

Fill the decanter with the holy wine,
and watch the universe intertwine.
Across the table sits your deceiver,
you listen to her talk and you believe her-

yet you know she's your worst liar,
but you indulge in her amorphous fire.
Under the fresco and dimming chandelier
you see your wife and children appear,

you and the deceiver run to the fire exit,
escaping up the staircase, leaving the banquet.
She stops you for a second and whispers "I love you,"
and even though  inside you feel a little blue,
you ascend with her because she is married, too.

I became addicted to nicotine
when I was only seventeen.
The sensation is like no other,
It makes you want another.

Your cells dance and prance,
iust ask the hedonists of France
To the priests that say malediction,
I say it’s the best addiction.

Yet the utopian feeling
is invariably temporal.
I thought I was heeling,
but my body is not eternal.

Kierkegaard says it’s theft,
sensation that deprives you and others.
but in the end there is nothing left,
albeit the crying mothers,
await the return of their children’s vestige.