I once met a sage 1000 years of age, who wore eyes that were hazed with the tragedies and victories of the glory days, who had feet that set ablaze a trail across the circumfrance of the earth, A man who has been in attendance for the death of this world and its rebirth, protecting and collecting the stories of the people, who's truth made them question their belief in their cathedral, and during this meeting we held a conversation consisting of no words, only the exchange of vibrations that spoke a language unheard, He asked me, "Where is that you go when your eyes become glass", and I spoke honest, "I envision all the mistakes I have made in my past", he laughed, a laugh that can be heard through out the cosmos and beyond, stating that mistakes do not exist, but I insisted he was wrong, telling him that there are many things that I should of done differently in life, he smiled and replied "But you do not have the privilege to live it twice, so embrace those mistakes because they molded you to the man you are today, and the moment you realize that, the lighter the burden will weigh", and all I could say was that I agreed, realizing that this wise sage, who knew so much, was actually me.

I want nothing more but to be alive for my autopsy, to experience the nature of what it is to be out of body, to be a phantom in theses cult parties, where everyone is willingly to sell their souls to pay the toll, to be the latest model of exact same copy, but not me, I choose to be a ghost instead, to escape society who's main proirty is censoring my head, because the world of the living is just as lifeless as the one of the dead

I close my eyes and walk on the tracks, because the thrill of not knowing when the train will come, is the only thing that reminds me that I'm even on a journey to begin with.

You can never remember how or when  you obtained your sanity, but you can always recall vividly on the moment you lost it.

Your eyes are pools of mercury, with a resonating gaze as endless as eternity, and as deep as the abysses of space, your lips a delicate shade of blood soaked roses, with an aroma so enticing that it has me fiending for a taste, and your skin as flawless as glass, as smooth, rich and hot to the touch as the forging of brass, and your curves have my eyes wondering all over the map, seeking out your mountains, hills and the holy arch along your back, but even with such mesmerizing beauty at your fingertips, your soul is still a reflection of your subconscious crevices, so you can try to cover up your inner ugly with your outer appearances, but I see right through your falsity, so no matter how gorgeous you are to me, I know what you truly are in reality, a cynic who just wants to see the world fold, so this time I disregard my mind and heart and listen to my soul, that enlightens me on the truth that everything that's shines is not always gold.

Your love is a poisonous green Palm tree, it provides shade from the tough times, but always leaves out the fact that it will **** me in the end.