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Day of pollen.
The birds have no *******.
Good things happen
To those
Who are
Inane
eugene-moon.weebly.com
And good things seem too happen for me
He is the tumultuous ocean,
The twisting, rolling sea
That feigns a certain gentleness
Until its rage breaks free

So vast and so unending
And limitless in worth
I took him once for granted
As I wandered through the surf.

Without the tumulus ocean
Without its rolling seas
Without the tide that tosses me
And never sets me free

The arid, fallow earth would crack
Beneath my burning feet
Reminding me of which I lost
And dried up with the heat

But salt leaves me to languish
No sweetness he can quench
Time will only tell from here
If love can fill this trench.
They say of me, and so they should,
It's doubtful if I come to good.
I see acquaintances and friends
Accumulating dividends,
And making enviable names
In science, art, and parlor games.
But I, despite expert advice,
Keep doing things I think are nice,
And though to good I never come--
Inseparable my nose and thumb!
492

Civilization—spurns—the Leopard!
Was the Leopard—bold?
Deserts—never rebuked her Satin—
Ethiop—her Gold—
Tawny—her Customs—
She was Conscious—
Spotted—her Dun Gown—
This was the Leopard’s nature—Signor—
Need—a keeper—frown?

Pity—the Pard—that left her Asia—
Memories—of Palm—
Cannot be stifled—with Narcotic—
Nor suppressed—with Balm—
Drag your feet against the pavement,
bleed your heels some more
Value the hurt
and that you feel pain.
Retract your strings
and put  boundaries on yourself.
Don't run free
you'll only be caught.
Continue to fill yourself with hope
that the most miserable of things
will fill you with joy.
Try to wrap your heart around a love
that is anything but true.
Open one door
to find a black hole in the other
and step into a dimension of
trust issues, self harm, hate for the world.
Forget all your responsibilities
and drop all respect
to dig a grave for your future.
Position yourself for a smooth road
and crumble when it bumps.
Remember your hard times
and relive all your hell.
And never forget
bring all the hurt to yourself.
Oh the world is not yet ready for art of this stature...
Oh oh...

Oh the "poets" that reside here are so ungrateful, they do not appreciate fine art such as mine.

Oh oh...

Perhaps I shall end it all today...
And go the way of Vincent Vango...
A fine artist's art is never realized...
Until he crosses the great divide...


Oh for now...
I retreat to my abode...
To craft fine art in solitude...
Perhaps I will get impatient...
Perhaps I will wait until the reaper arrives...

Oh oh...

When I perish the magnitude of art will be seen...
It is now painfully obvious that this world is not yet ready for art as fine as my own. I leave my art here so that it may inspire future generations, perhaps one day I will even come back if I live to behold the day the world matures. I go now to craft art in solitude.
Rebellion is a task because there are a number of forces to overcome.

The first being the saturation of the grid and the reasonable desire to succeed against these odds, that in turn make this lifestyle difficult to achieve.
-- The realization of the powers that hold our government with the capability to destroy the very genetic code of human beings.

Fed by extreme structure until life outside the system is illegal.  

Second: the curse of pattern recognition and the grand achievement of neurolinguistics;
The systematic and biological inclement of philanthropist action
taken to assert an advertisement is within itself a mechanism
to wash true passion for life on this earth.
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