When I see a beautiful woman I am struck by a series of emotions
First is a sort of divine perturbation
My heart attempts flying as the world forms around her
She is Aphrodite new and perfect, adorned in all the wreathing beauty of this world
A corona of blinding halos sing to me
How I wish this is where it ends
Soon after I am struck with an abject shame
I fear my glance to be misunderstood
If only I could relieve myself of my fetid desires
If only I could live in that divine serene moment
Further after this I feel hollow for I fear I will never be understood
Pain in kind greets my being and I ache in my existence.

When I write it is a panic
I shake I rage
I'm always a moment from crying and laughing
I can taste the air they breathe I feel their tears and love
Born in a moment
Live Love Die
I want for nothing else than to create

Man gives form to his world as he chooses.
Any one moment is, by that man, changed and willed as he wishes.
Across one lifetime a man will redefine a moment as many times as he likes to suit the world he finds himself in.
A man finding himself in need of absolution without God will wish beneficence on all moments.
The half foolish man sees the world as it would be without him.
In the cradle of solemn non being he can only find hope.
Through utter unending black he will choose to see hope.
Why?

It is so easy to go your whole life walking the right path with your eyes down looking only at your feet. Those people mostly only look up to fail. They end up very quickly on the wrong path. They spend their time on that path panic stricken walking in circles staring at the world around them. What horror did they not see?

Sharing spaces idly
With unwilling and trite.
Is the sky painted?
Words shared in expanse
On the truly mundane,
But prose and spirit?
Accepted?
HOW?
Contemplate myriads.
Please.
Points previously made
Are to be expanded.
Beauties need to be enamored.
Freedom is a question.
Please see this.

Built on solid silent empty
Containing a vague wisp of air
Patterns form for the willing
And in them, beatific solemnity
O praise the deity
Such is the fool’s design
But the better for it
Christ spoke simply
The alternate,
Never.

The blade against open skin
Evokes euphoria, bliss.
The cycle of your very being
Emptied of its fuel
Is divinity unmitigated.

To pain openly and well
And see the world bluried
Is a peace.
Black is the slate
And gave you life.

If the form given finds its joy
In all of the darks and heights,
The pitiless sorrows
And ectatic pleasures,
How could one not see?