Conventional Books
A petty slave in chains of mind
Sees the "world" through books confined—
From the kitchen to the loo,
All he knows, he takes from view.
Legends shape his hollow creed,
Makes him think he's fine indeed;
"Law is just," though firm and grim,
Since the world is just like him.
"Friendship’s sweet!"—yet reeks of treason.
What’s a bond when rot’s the reason?
Where’s the "norm" in filth and lies?
Fear and madness—your disguise!
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On the Road to the Pen
Lost in darkness, seeking grace,
Yet meet the Horns in Hell’s embrace—
For the Pit is all around,
But we fear the bleeding wound.
So, impaled, we hush our cries,
Dare not claim the Devil’s near.
Then we wake with clouded eyes—
See but cattle, trapped in fear.
No more screams, you sell your soul,
Step by step, the Pen is near.
Once inside, you lose control—
Thoughts are banished. Mind unclear.
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Sellout Teachers of Nonsense
More of nonsense—more belief.
Lies and filth now stand as chief.
Born into this hollow scheme,
Where deceit is law supreme?
If you haven’t—start to ask,
Truth is there behind the mask.
Seek your answers, make them real,
Not the ones they fake and deal.
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The Eraser and the Elastic
Elastic fools—so weak, so hollow,
Twisted minds too numb to follow.
Broken souls, like cans of meat,
Served to beasts—obedient treat.
Bend and break them, twist their sight,
They endure—no will to fight.
Sin is just their daily bread.
Freedom’s myth. The depths we tread.
No escape, no higher calling,
Lies and madness keep enthralling.
Only Chaos wipes the slate,
Crushing demons, cleansing fate.
Yet the Eraser spares the few,
Not as doom, but as renew.
Through the fire, through the flood,
Spirits rise from dust and blood.
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The "Sacred" Shall Perish
The "sacred" fades, its end is near,
Its priest’s corpse rots, defiled, severe.
And should you yield, give up the fight,
Your mind will vanish into night.
Crush their idols, mock their lies,
Laugh at priests with scornful eyes.
For sarcasm is the cure we wield,
Lest to their madness we must yield.
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The Brand of a Slave
Forged iron is out of date,
But still, it seals the twisted fate—
What’s deemed "good" by society,
Bears evil’s ugly quality.
Not "who," but "what" defines the soul—
A broken, hollow, empty goal.
He sweeps the filth of Earth away,
While his son’s left to clear the decay.
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The Struggles of Knowing This Hell
Once lost, there's no return—
That’s the truth we live and learn.
No curses left, no words to say,
"Blessings" all, like dust, decay.
Poor and lonely, that’s the key—
Only then you truly see Hell's plea.
The full-fed man is blind, astray,
Three-quarters of them—beasts at play.
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The Olympic Marathon in Paris
Beside the Invalids' Dome,
The finish line's a greater home
Than in the "CowID" world of dread—
Old age and staff, yet still it said:
"You're just a fool!"
Exchanged the lies for heresy,
With evil’s grin, they set it free—
Through lies and fear, through filth and rot,
The darkness shows its mighty plot.
But stronger still the rider black,
Who rode with speed along the track—
Upon the water, swift, foretelling
Death in Hell—no "heaven" dwelling.
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Famous Figures with Staffs at the Paris Olympics
Clowns with staffs, they pull the sheep along,
The start is near—get ready, don’t go wrong.
What they call "original" is just a show,
For those who can’t see—this world’s a blow!
Once there were muzzles, now the staffs remain—
The beasts grow clever, but they still bring pain.
They've turned us into cattle, low and vile,
The staff strikes—Satan’s bell, the warning’s style.
--- Total 9 poems. ---