In what fashion
Should my passion  
Be put to action?
For every time I sway some way
A little voice in my head will say
"What is the ultimate
What is the true way
Pointless ventures have no place
Keep doing this and your running in place
Wasting time
Make use of your mind
In this race of life
You'll be left behind"        
Hollow and brash
I search for the next path
Discouraged from the last
Until the veracity that once was comes back to be passed  
See, for me
Motivations are fleeting
Nothing is ever fun
Once you find out the meaning

Love, lust,  or appreciation
Innocent encounters charged with anticipation
A mind coccoons the subject with infatuation
Bouts of uncertainty, saturated with elation.

Man is made with a hole in his heart
It can be filled with many, many things
But not all these things fit the part
The heart of man is peculiar in its intent
Friends, family, women, drugs, money   the heart strives to fill the hole with time well spent  
Good intent or destructive ventures
Choices innumerable
The pain or contentment is waiting for mans time of leisure
Strike while the iron is hot
Sit back and let the mind rot
Fickle intent focused on the plot
Goals set from this point result in a flop

Dye the ***** water with contaminates:
                         Blue #1,
                                                  and Sucralose, too.

Bend over to spray
                         the rotting road-**** with perfume.

Perfect the recipe
                         for what was fleshed and fruited
                                                  from animals and plants.

Photoshop the starved and diseased
                         with smiles
                                                  and beautiful bodies.

Clothe the *****
                         with lingerie, with heels,
                                                  and with stones.

Paint the roses red.
                         We paint the white roses red.
                                                  We’re painting the white roses red!

The things that I surmise
With my wide open eyes
Are that I know absolutely nothing of my place in the cosmos
And I don't mean to boast but I understand alot more than most    
But is this a gift or a curse, an inner voice asks whats the cost?
This mind of mine, constantly fixated on the why
The constant nagging of the pursuit of truth ticking away with the time
Questions often asked come to no finite resolution
They just fill my head with paralyzing smog and pollution
Should i long to have the splendid peace of the simple fool, no
This is my blessing and my burden, and my mind is my tool.

Im a calm, cool collected cucumber underneath this fandangled, wiry, wrinkled visage.
Ive escaped the clutches of the tangled snare of my image.
Where and when I belong and to whom is no matter.
I pass by groups and clans and grimace inquisitively at thier chatter.
To my ears its an alien clamour of clashing egos and look at me's.
They'd all be happier in a lonesome cross legged position enjoying the breeze beneath the trees.
With ease I float through my day passionately.
Expanding and contracting with the waves of existence.
I sway indefinitely.
Yield to and renounce the question arisen from the back of the mind "what does it mean to be me"

Theyre trying to stop us
They want to see us fail
They expect us not to feel
The source of our ails
"Keep them in the maze" they say
"And withhold the truth"
"Fill their brains with triviality in the paper and on the news"
"This is how we'll ensure they all follow suit"                        
I can't see the face of our enemy but I surely feel his breath.    
He breathes it through our minds, souls and bodies
And wishes for our death