I can walk
this world,
tall or short,
figure one or figure eight,
black or white
has long as my word is on everyone's lips,
has long has i top the gossip list.
              
Fame,
name
all the same.
Money,
folly
all making me naughty.
            
Pleasure,
leisure
all in my ATM treasure.
            
Screams,
dreams
all over the TV screens.
          
I vanish
and smear my ego with a gold polish.
Taking a break, i call it.
              
I could snap my fingers in an empty room
and in an instant it becomes a party room.
          
I walk
through the storm,
cloth the sun,
re-decorate the night sky.
I'm in the world
i'm breathing
and i'm famous.
        
What is the point in not bragging?
When my style isnt manual.
        
What is wrong with being sick in the head,
when ranking makes you un-stable:
most expensive car,
most craziest style,
most funkiest hair,
most hottest chick,
most coziest house,
most expensive jewelleries,
most socially active,
most drunkest driver,
most party crasher,
most grammy receiver...
        
It never stops
till your hand drops
and suddenly the light leaves your eyes
and your heart takes to retirement.
        
The flesh
forgets to carry with it
all it had acquired.
The Grave shuts the stink.

What is liberty without breath?
What is sanity when there is an eventual death?
The Law
is a control cause.

The same sense
that makes you not sing aloud in a bank,
to the same sense
that makes you not *** on an open road,
down to the same sense
that makes you not wear swimming trunks to an evening outting;
solely because people and cameras are watching
makes me wonder of our pre-supposed gift from nature.

When we think its forthcoming
right up that faith we're fast building,
it flies away again,
even in the rain
thus, mocking all efforts that are evidently in vain.

Re-fill my thirst
to direct all my anger in order to fulfil this quest.

Reach for the evening cloud
to covers all youthful activities on motion ground.

Crave for confidence
that we may flaunt madness.

Truth be spoken.
Hearts beat for red bluff,
mine beats for red stuff.

Cold pierced through the blanket.
Then it started,
the nose bleeds,
soar throat,
aches.
As familair as these are,
and as annoying as stinging bees are,
this time was different.
One soak in a hot tub,
made the water cold in an instant.
One sip in a hot coffee,
made the steam die off.
What cold is this?
Who would you warm up with?

I know one i would warm up with,
but now he is mad at me.
I'll wait
and pray till he lets me into his warm embrace
once more.

History's greatest psychic,
Micheal de Nostrademus prophesied.
He wrote and wrote.
Words on calamity
of terrifying magnanimity.
War leader after another,
battles and assassinations after the previous one.
Morality in all decisions was part of his plans.
Blood, death, waste and famine are quite familiar in our age
but in the end our century will be peaceful.

    "Peace prosecuted by death
    shall be achieved.
    In one night,
    green that have
    been long dead
   will grow green again.
   After the war,
   there would be a re-newed rain
   and a Golden Age,
   and a peace that would last
   a 1000 Years.