Forget You

Intro

Your voice always gets to me through

the convincing brutal honesty in verbal abuse.

From the moment I first heard you, I knew

I could never win with you,

but I didn't wanna lose,

'cause you made me high too.

I know it's not an excuse, but I choose

to stay confused and just refuse

to let it go and say goodbye to you.

What if I'll feel so empty without you?

Without the feeling I'm in now,

'cause I love being in it

forever everywhere, I swear, I mean it.

And I guess there's nothing wrong with having a little crush on you

just for a minute.

It's okay, but hey,

I'm not trying to justify a guy with a short fuse

and mean demeanor.

I mean, I know it can be meaner.

No matter how amused by you,

I kind of feel like I'm used.

Not that I accuse you, just warn you

that it's a bad habit you'd better not get used to.

Though, you're still my muse.

I wish I were your muse too

so that I could listen to your new song like I used to,

'cause it's exhausting,

but I can't help listening to your awesome anguishing agony,

your music you use to let loose,

release exhaust fumes,

your evergreen, everlasting spring in solitary, torturing you.

Much as I wouldn't dare fit in your shoes,

I'd like to rap with you, but I live in ludicrous blues.

You gave me so much pain and pleasure through your art,

that grew so deep into your soul and your body that you now embody rap.

And I want to thank you accordingly,

repay you with both sides of the same coin,

with the range of reflections from hilarious rage to evil love.

So, sweetie, sit back and relax,

while I'm performing to you my rap dance.

Enjoy.

Pipe Dream

Of course, you don't know me as a person.

By the way, it's also vice versa,

I don't know you either.

It's not like I wrote a lot of verses.

But I wish this one could make us closer.

It's a pity you'll never read it.

But if you did, it would mean the world to me,

especially if you wrote back.

It would be an event of the scale of the second advent,

'cause you are closed for me like a celestial deity,

hidden behind the veil of a subconscious dream so far,

at the same time, so close like God,

sorry, my bad, lord Satan.

As an artist, you draw attention to your life show

along with prayers, praise, and worshiping you kids’ letters,

not reaching the addressee.

Where do they go,

Santa Claus?

To the North Pole,

where it's so cold,

forty below zero?

Isn't it a bit too low for yo’ ho-ho-hos?

No, yeah, you're right.

What if an addresser

is a transgender ****** ****** or a crossdresser?

Still, it breaks my heart that it's just a pipe dream,

which is impossible to get satisfied with,

as appealing as it is.

Ah, what you gonna do?

An addict takes what he needs.

So I gotta try to make it come true.

I will keep writing to believe that I can get through to you.

I'm aware of how much time it may take.

But as long as magic is real, my feelings aren't fake.

I can always find time for you,

even though you never have it for me.

Does my demanding more of your attention mean

that I love you more than you love me?

I don't care what your name is and where you are from

or how much money you've got in your bank account.

It only matters how you perform.

After all, you've won an Oscar,

not for being a good actor, though.

Yeah, yeah, I know.

Credit where credit’s due.

You did play your *** off

staying true to yourself, showed the world

your cold white cocky cheeky ***

and opened up your incandescent soul

as if it's a bold, wide-open, giant *******

inflicting your **** upon the world,

being a sassy drama-queen pain in the ***

'cause you're an *******

That may make me look like I'm your worst fan.

But I really didn't wanna hurt your feelings at all.

It's just, no matter what you do,

open your mouth, be sad as **** or, God forbid, even smile,

some bunch of people that see you

somehow manage to get ****** off every time.

You're **** right, it's true.

Well, I guess, of all people,

you should appreciate a rapturously sarcastic joy.

Don't take offense, I'm only kidding,

just playing with you, my favorite toy.

For what it's worth,

you are the best superhuman Rapboy on Earth.

With this, you've been blessed and cursed, a sinner since birth.

Jesus, can you believe this?

They say you're a genius.

If it isn't love, I don't know what it is.

Except it might be some kind of addiction or a contagious disease.

And as every disease, it will increase,

then finally cease and release.

Or maybe not, then I will tragically die

and, hopefully, find my peace with ease.

Compared to tormenting life,

it must be a piece of cake,

easy as pie just to decease.

Anyway, you probably shouldn't even read this,

I have to admit.

Indeed, why would you read it,

when you got your own ****

Well, I guess, everyone has a story nobody gives a **** about.

Anyhow, should you, however, dare read it now,

make sure you still have enough spare time

and there's no one around

to wipe your *** and polish your crown,

‘cause it's long, and you're not that young

to be disturbed or waste your time.

You know, I didn't want to post this verse at first.

Nor did I want to elaborate on many things.

Then some time has passed.

And my brain did it anyway,

‘cause it's what it does.

So I thought it's worth a shot.

What the hell? Let's see how it goes,

pens out, and grows.

It may get complicated.

But I hope you'll understand it.

You can do it. I believe in you.

It must not be that hard for a thinker of your caliber,

the caliber, intrinsic to Glocks.

Now, let's see how the magic works.

Are you ready, big fat rap star boy,

still sick, slim shady?

All right, let's go already.

Or I'll write a little bit more

by the time you have read it.

Note that I've got the same habit.

Since I was fifteen years old, I've had it.

That's about when my childhood ended,

and I happened to start listening to rap, also.

That’s right, I wrote poems.

That was my way to cope with problems.

As if constant self-digging can solve anything.

And I still write at times like it's my dope,

a slippery slope for my word flow,

which, I hope, won't turn to be a suicide note

of a writer, who's already soaped the rope.

Don't worry, I'm fine.

Like your life is sacrificed for a reason,

all your **** is written for the sake of a rhyme.

The same is with mine.

Just make sure you don't sacrifice the reason for a rhyme

to realize in the end, that there's no rhyme or reason, in fact, in your life,

besides the one, created by your mind.

And it knows deep inside,

that there is no reason in a rhyme.

It's in your pain.

And even though you entertain,

you're definitely not a people pleaser. Right?

I know, this habit’s bad, it's wrong,

and I should stop, but no,

I keep editing and adding,

‘cause I'm an addict.

That's probably all perfectionists’ problem.

Thanks to the absence of writer’s block,

you also have it,

enjoying the process of getting inspired by your own notebook

with your code-like raps,

where you draw your sick brain’s map

to figure out or calculate the cure for you,

spill ill evil through your bleeding letters,

that can help others use ‘em as ladders

to get up above and beat their deep, bitter, sad madness,

being still angry, though, and stuck in old patterns.

Yeah, yeah, you, too, know it,

you also have it,

oh, so deeply wounded soul of a poet.

By the way, I do it too.

So I’mma roast your *** in a stove

as no one else ever did before,

my tasty rabbit.

It's gonna be hotter than hell.

So hot that the devil himself

will envy you at first,

then feel so sorry for you, baby,

that he will even let you endeavor

to get into heaven.

May I have your attention, please?

Stand up for yourself, if you will.

No, wait, actually, the real question now is,

am I ready to mess with the real Slim Shady?

Wow! That's unheard of and a lil’ intimidatin’, to be honest.

So, be that as it may, we shall see.

I guess, it depends on how deep

we can take this… whatever it is.

Anyways, it won't hurt him, nope.

I promise.

I hope, you don't wanna burn this **** just yet.

After all, you haven't even read it.

If no, then let's get real. Get ready.

Shall we, Mr. Mathers-Shady?

Follow me, my dear.

Let's go already.

Obsession

I actually see that

we share the same illusion of

mutual love.

Sometimes it seems, though,

I'm a bit delusional

and stuck in appealing bluff

with my life, cut in half.

As I am torn in two between me and you,

getting the wrong impression

and making the false conclusion

of falling for you like a fool,

always following you,

like a loyal dog as opposed to a hungry wolf,

eager to lose myself in this confusion

and overwhelming passion,

in an instant, turning into the irrational obsession of a buff

that's stunningly never enough,

'cause it makes me feel special,

a rough fuse on the expression

of the eternal hunger for love.

Life is worthless without this feeling.

Isn't that how it's supposed to be?

I just gotta keep believing

that it's not destroying me.

I'd been living in denial for a long time, though,

lying to myself that you were not bad, not good either,

just gradually growing on me, fantasizing,

pretending that you could be my friend,

feigning that I wasn't your fan.

Unfortunately I am.

But I do my best not to be.

I do all I can.

It doesn't help.

Yeah, I know it's bad for my head.

Man, but I didn't even know

how seriously I was hooked on

your songs back then

and didn't realize

how deeply I was in love with my little, clandestine,

indecent, innocent, beautiful lies.

Yes, it's unhealthy.

Yet, I can't help it.

It just happened.

I guess it had to happen.

Dang! I don’t understand it

and hate to admit

that it's a nasty, hot pleasure and pain

to be your stan.

Still, I can't stand the idea that I can't leave ya,

no matter how hard I try.

I just can't withstand.

In my defense, I'm a petite woman,

and you're a superman.

As always, what I resist persists.

Maybe I'm trying too hard.

I guess, it's a curse of a perfectionist,

the neurosis of being too smart,

when a scull can't contain too big a brain,

which is pretty much useless for the heart.

I'd love to have faith in your words, my god,

believe the irresistible, sweet lie,

the convincing feeling

that you are extremely appealing and hot,

the attractive illusion I want to believe in.

I think I'll forgive you,

even if you hurt me, make me cry,

‘cause you are so sweet, smooth, and swift,

like a knife

for every bonnie girl to collide with.

And I don't know why

I have to live with this wound in my heart till the day I die,

this ****** hole, caused by cold steel of the blade, stealing my life.

Maybe it's because this wild fire,

being born in me, burns in me,

burning me while I'm still alive.

And I still can't understand why.

Beauty doesn't have to make sense, I guess,

unless you have the audience to impress.

Extremely explicit expression is sincere and enough

to have meaningless ***

or even make love.

Man, if I've ever actually met you, I'd be like,

“Wow! How?

I mean, Hi.

My name is…

Ah, forget it.

It's nice to meet you.

But why the hell do I feel suddenly so ******* high right now?

If I died now, I wouldn't mind.”

Yeah, I do like you a lot, I like your style.

It's like I've known you all my life.

Man, are you outstanding.

I'd even wear a T-shirt with your face if I had one

to honor your eminent name and enrich your fandom.

So you see it's bad for mental health

to tell people, especially ****** poetry junkies everything about yourself.

You know, I'd love your words even more

if I were you.

I mean, if you were me, bro.

Nonetheless, I am the victim of your art now,

like in a way you are of mine.

You just don't know it yet,

being trapped by the sense of mind

in the cage of space and time.

Hard to read it, huh?

Sure, you can read it, duh.

Nothing is impossible for you, superstar.

Don't be hard on your stans. It's not fair.

Oh, you're not? You love ‘em? Okay, then.

It’s just, being your fan can be a sweet dream or a nightmare,

from which they can't wake up so far,

‘cause it's so good to not quite understand

that they all can be their own stars.

So in their souls, they really all are.

Addiction

I keep coming back to your addictive personality,

'cause it's a part of me,

my personal reality

in a childish, stupidly struggling with my own aggression mentality

that pulls me in like gravity

of the synergetic, badly needed duality.

You are my dark shade,

angry and always hungry twin

in a distorting mirror,

a meaner reflection in me.

And you complete me and keep me on track,

even though it leads to a brain wreck,

violent calamity,

causing a permanent damage

due to the lack of virtuous verbal morality,

offensive obscene insanity,

resembling Tourette syndrome profanity,

that almost makes you a possessive fiend,

***** devil, pure evil, the enemy of humanity,

having fun, making fun of everybody,

making fans of them, including me.

******* my brains, instead of making love,

******* with this ****** up reality

you tried to get distracted from

through getting addicted to drugs, though.

You would substitute your depression

with substance abuse and excessive passion,

embracing your obsession

and balancing in the range of rage and compassion,

hurting people you love

because people who were supposed to love you, hurt you too.

That, I have enough empathy to understand

for one reason.

And I'm not proud of it,

but I have to admit

that, sadly, I kinda do the same

for the same reasons.

Shame on me.

You know, even if you try all the drugs of the world,

you won't find the true meaning of existence.

Most importantly, you'll get no love.

Yeah, youth gives you tons of opportunities to check your body for resilience.

As if killing the body can make the spirit stronger.

Too strong a spirit can spare your body of the aging inconvenience

so that you would have no more doubts about your divine power any longer.

Then again, I don't wanna complain,

but I find myself in your pain,

drowned in the inane feeling I can't explain,

running away from this stupid game

to feel not so lame and no longer remain insane,

trying to commit to the promises I've made to myself in vain

about resolving the main issue of staying in the same habitual refrain,

even if I have to abstain from your demonic music with diabolical lyrics

or at least change my name,

claiming to have found a new aim to regain my dignity.

It’s supposed to make me feel better.

So I feign that it's easier to live this way, but it ain’t.

I hope I'm on my way to break free from shame and blame,

the flame of emotional lability,

still restrained,

being mesmerized by the vicious samsara circle of infinity,

this magnificent ouroboros

of the endless sense of gain or loss,

stored in countless stories about yesterdays and tomorrows,

in the illusory plot, written carefully for us,

in neverending, invisible time that everyone borrows.

Now, I don't mind being a fan of someone who's already dead.

But of someone who's still alive?

That's just sick, living legend.

Don't you think?

Would you like to know the date of your dying day?

Or you're afraid?

How would it change your life?

Would foreseeing the future make you wiser?

Yeah, your life is not my business, I know.

I should be focused on my own.

See, I start realizing

that I’m a sinner, ‘cause I idolize you.

How did I end up in your satanic cult without invitation?

Boy, do I look yet like I need to be exorcized

or just meditate and exercise

in a silent harbor of a life-saving rehab

after a highly enlightening, heart-warming, emotional intervention?

As if I'm possessed by the supernatural force of obsession

that wants to be expressed with an excessive passion.

You know what I mean.

Man, you've been high so many times

that you forgot how to come down.

An addict turned into a drug,

creating literally a dope art,

even if it's ironically about recovery.

But the only difference is that now you are your own god,

while your bible is a dictionary,

which kinda looks like another addiction to me.

And once you felt it,

you just can't help it,

'cause you're an addict,

master of intellectual lust,

brain ******* graphomaniac,

skilled to cerebrally **********

till reaching an intellectual ******

You’re trained to write till the pain in your brain.

I do get that too, yes.

But I'd rather have *** till the pain in my ***

You don't enjoy your life.

That's why you try to hide behind your stupid rhymes,

covering your body with tattoos,

head in hood,

trying on horns and hooves.

Man, you're a ******* rapper,

'cause you're not happy.

When you are really happy,

you don't need any reason or words to heal.

Misery begets more misery.

But how come your pain brings speechless love that I feel?

It's a **** mystery.

Do you wanna be loved now or remembered forever?

You bully yourself to stay hungry.

Man, I think about you 24/7

to feed my libido, be in love,

stay inspired 100%, and

believe that I can live now and survive later,

as I'm overinspired by my love for you.

I'm not sure if I want to be always this honest.

Do you want me to?

Would you take a leap of faith in my truth

rather than inspire hope?

I ******* doubt it.

You did your best to get into my head,

my jam-tomorrow dope.

Now you can't get out and

act like you don't give a **** about it.

The first reaction is usually, "Why the **** do I need this?"

And next thing you know, you can't help inquiring,

"How am I supposed to live now without it?"

You made me fall in love with you,

popped up in my heart out of the blue.

Satanically evil devil.

Diabolically saint Satan.

I'm high on you,

feel like I’m in heaven,

like I've never felt better,

not in this life, I haven't.

Yet, again, the best trip I'm having

turns into a massive crash of the system,

which is the side effect

of a major crush on you.

How the hell did that happen?

I wish it were just a squish,

‘cause I don't wanna be a part of your harem,

like you got no one better to do.

Oy oy oy, my bad, are you a nice, coy boy.

That's how it must feel to be the victim of a marketing ploy,

advertisement subterfuge.

But the toll we all have to pay

as consumers, trapped by an artificial but appealing rap decoy,

sometimes seems to be too huge.

You know, it's quite a toil

to use a troll as a *** toy

instead of a ***** or a *****

‘cause sooner or later, you get annoyed

enough to turn a reader

into a writer, fighter for more freedom.

Fine by me.

It doesn't have to be a big deal, though.

Turn around, I'm here.

Boo!

I kid. Chill, it's just a joke,

and there’ll be more.

I know, to you, it's like a nice gesture.

Yeah, I'm funny like that,

such a clown, court jester.

See, the neurons, connected with you,

in my head, are so ******* fat.

I can't get rid of them just like that,

like you can't get rid of yours.

I mean those neurons,

responsible for your best singles,

favorite songs

that became your essence,

unwavering core,

ese, as endless rhyming essays

in the eternal spring of your solo soul.

So in the screaming silence of the solitude,

I lost my heart to you.

I’m wasted on yo’ bars.

You are amazing, dude.

I’m crazy about you.

It's so bizarre.

As your ambition was once to conquer the world,

mine is to conquer your heart and earn your love,

'cause you are currently my world.

My universe is you.

Well, *******

Now, what am I supposed to do?

Fairy Tale

You can't force a person to see the world through your eyes,

nor is it possible to explain or describe

a three-dimensional feeling by means of words

unless your listener is familiar with it, of course,

‘cause while you are trying to convince an impervious fool,

there's nobody but you, as a rule,

to be receptive to the exaggerations of your word,

and at the end, you start to yell to get through as usual,

having convinced yourself even more.

But it sounds as if you are killing it like a boss,

making a mess of thoughts

I can relate to, 'cause

mine are similar, but yours are worse,

spectacular, but also ghastly, disgusting, crass, and gross.

Like grass, your **** grows and attracts flies and crows.

Nice choice of words,

looks like a can of worms,

bananas verbose neurosis,

but also awesome and so virtuoso.

Verbiage, verboseness, verbosity, verbosis

to show all the ******* who here the boss is,

rhyming circumlocution,

the freedom-of-speech revolution,

pleonasm,

the pleasant to ears associative redundancy of a word chasm.

It tastes so good,

even if it's a rhymeless wormy orange fruit

with a surreptitious core

I wouldn't risk foraging for food,

‘cause it looks suspicious, like a cute *****

though, delicious till the very last bite

of the canned worm pie

on a golden wordish dish

with a red hot cherry on top that charms

as usual with the illusion of being in your right mind

and having the might to drop the mic

to paralyze and reward you with a cerebral ******

And those bozos

who don't get it can **** your *****

and buzz off, morons.

Right? Just drop dead and permanently get lost.

I guess with this, you're blessed and cursed,

cursed to make crosswords out of curse words,

cursed to swear, spitting rhyming slurs,

hurting others’ feelings with your screaming street slim slam poetry about how Shady did it,

hidden in your diabolically crazy schemes,

arising from infuriating poverty,

just ‘cause that's how real this **** feels.

Well, duh. That hurts.

I didn't realize it at first.

Now I admire that you don't get tired

of trying to describe it,

Although inspiring,

it can be hard and unfulfilling,

but you're a fighter.

Rap god, living in us, you are one of us,

Houdini in a hoodie, who disappears whenever he wants,

hides under the hood, behind the bars.

It looks like we're on the same page.

I'm full of fierce rage,

balancing and cutting myself in half on a rough, iron, sharp edge

rather than in the golden middle between the extremes of the dualistic system.

You're on the rampage,

use your finesse to impress

for the sake of success.

Chasing perfection, neither can I finish writing this verse,

nor return the gift and close Pandora's box,

a perplexing, puzzling paradox.

I gave up. I can't stop

I'm in deep funky ****

literally drowning in it,

taken, smitten. I'm ******

apparently, permanently stuck,

and deeply, irreparably ****** up.

It seems to be as long as my life

with no dead ends and a deadline in the end of life,

a fantastic dream within a dream I'm in,

a fairy tale my soul comes in

to make love out of war

and die after ****** with an eternally grateful smile,

as if I'm sentenced to doing my time

writing sentences and lines in rhyme for life.

And I don't wanna do anything else.

What for?

Do I have to? Who cares?

The limit is the sky,

where my head stays

for a while.

Here I dwell in my fairy tale.

Why?

Why do I pursue unreachable perfection?

I don't know.

What's the point of setting the bar too high

if you don't have the wings to fly up to it and grasp it so far?

Should you get ‘em, are you gonna shoot for the star?

I'm sure, reckless Icarus, you are.

Or else why were we born?

Why do we live?

Why do we die?

Oh my, am I too high?

If not, am I creating a masterpiece or slowly losing my mind?

Am I like the butterfly that flies too close to the fire?

Why is it writing itself? What is this?

What the **** is this?

Can anyone explain it to me, please?

The prose of life with an empty purse

and pockets isn't my purpose.

Why the **** does it seem, then,

that the process of writing this verse is?

I'm inspired by everything at this point.

Every word is a potential trigger.

All I need is to pull it as quickly as possible.

Like literally, I hear a word,

and bam! My head is about to explode,

as if I am in God Mode.

Oh, no! Try to calm down, meditate. Doesn't work.

Should I meditate a bit more?

Yeah, sure. Why not?

Uh-oh, here we go again.

And I start to elaborate on the word that I've heard before,

turning it into the flow of rhyming thoughts

to the rhythm of my heart,

writing several verses at once

in different tongues,

both not quite civil, though.

**** me!

I feel like I'm a walking poetry,

even better, a living controversy,

or an unstoppable stupid-genius oxymoron.

In fact, I've already gotten so high

that it looks like I'mma leave this planet far behind.

See, it sounds as if I was kidnapped,

taken roughly, though subliminally,

without preliminary tenderness or warnings

during napping,

unaware of what had happened,

like a precious princess

with a priceless soul of a dainty deity

and a diety, dandy, one-million-dollars-price silicone ***

by some kind of madness,

possessed by the destiny of a goddess and a demoness

in cahoots, en rapport with a rap poetess,

since I didn't start this emotional dance of the sense

from the cognitive mess

of the chaotic subconsciousness,

I think I can control more or less,

on purpose.

It was a coincidence,

like self-awareness,

for I am now the feeling,

one, alone,

at the same time, not at home.

There is, in fact, no me at all

or no meaning for all

beside the one that has found you.

It's your life, where you are free to move on.

I call it destiny.

Well, then let it be.

And who doesn't agree

can kiss the goddess’s *** for free.

You get the gist?

Please, don't resist the culmination of my made-up friendship,

I insist.

Sorry, I don't know why, but I just need this.

We are together in this sensation

that stubbornly persists to exist.

Would you care to accept the respect of a crazy fan and a frenzy friend, at least,

the affection of a hungry hunter, my rare and beautiful beast?

No? Man, all right, then, look.

I'll do all Cinderella's chores,

but I'll write a book.

It will be about you

and me,

and all people on the planet, actually,

for you to read, snuggled in a cozy nook.

I'm looking forward to

our virtual, romantic rendezvous,

where I'll leave you

with this shiny, glass shoe,

a virtual piece of me,

****** into the fairy-tale reality

you got hooked on already.

See you at the ball, my dark prince.

Face your fate on the day we meet.

Although it's blind, with no specific date,

don't be late, babe, please.

And, hey, just in case,

you may need to call for a priest.

No **** As my first chore,

I've sewn my bootyhole,

‘cause princesses don't **** don't ****

and don't get old.

Or I'll just kiss a frog and see my pumpkin turn into a car.

Or even better, kiss me, and I'll wake up.

Stan’s Shadyverse

It's time to overcome my fear of you to disappear.

Your music flows already in my blood,

like a virus or a drug.

The ***** voice I hear,

your witty tongue, caressing, kissing, penetrating my ear,

touches my heart.

The devouring power

grabs my soul and drags it to the black hole of art,

the void of desire

that unavoidably draws a butterfly to the fire.

What a cruel life satire!

It's so **** beautiful

and looks as though

I'm literally about to see god,

even though I know I'm not.

I'm not that dumb,

just dumb enough

to think I am too smart for that.

I hope I won't lose my religion and not starting to write a new bible,

'cause what you sing and write,

it feels so right,

an enlightening bright ray of light at night

in your every single new album.

I love the way you tell your truth and lie.

I love the way you blow my mind,

causing something similar to euphoria,

the whole body's ******

such a great pleasure. Oh, my!

But it sounds like you pay for this with your excruciating pain.

It comes to my head, screws my brain,

turns me on, and again,

rapes my mind.

You play me like a guitar.

In other words, I might say,

I love the way you sound,

like a little, fascinating, too loud tweety bird

in love, inspired in spring in the forest,

with a mellifluous voice,

who repeats again and again the same chorus

after a snappy verse with melodramatic words

and sings for the moment

of love that lasts as long as the bird’s song flows.

You don't want it to stop with the arousing desire to seize it, capture, shoot or record.

God, would I give it all to you,

if I were this kind of bird too.

However, the bird also yells a lot, spits, swears, ***** and mocks.

******* mockingbirds! They are the worst.

While I seem to express a meaningful feeling.

I mean, for some reason, it's very fulfilling

like a beautiful windy dance of a sense

and an emotion in energy motion

that doesn't even need to cling to words.

Still got a lot to stay severe about? So what?

There is no time.

You are now here with me, my funny, blue, serene forget-me-not.

With you, I feel no fear.

It sounds surreal, so weird, yet so astoundingly sincere.

In no way do I wanna hinder, or interfere.

But you complete me.

You brought me here.

Now I'm near you, I'm yours

in my daydream that feels so real,

so clear, so dear, so close.

Close the door, turn off your mind.

I will be soft and kind.

I give you my word.

Take off your clothes,

your flesh and bones,

expose your whole soul,

lose yourself in my world.

Come here, sweetheart.

Calm down.

You are with me now.

I can't fake it

when I see you vulnerable and naked,

because being with you in the buff

makes me feel that I'm in love.

The ice, baby, break it.

Find yourself in the sea of my eyes, take it.

Here me out, acknowledge me, my god.

I want to be your peer without a doubt

or any intermediaries except one love,

that's free from a logical dualism between us.

I'm also standing on the stage, although behind the scenes,

clandestinely, as no one can see me.

As though I’m destined to persevere in

expressing myself in this verse.

Can I impress you like you impress me? Just curious,

reluctant to confess to a tempting attempt to sin.

I think it's innocent but serious,

the best delirious experience

I've ever felt with you within,

inside my mind, under my skin,

between reality and a 3D dramatic dream.

I mean you and me in

my strong, magnetic, parallel, shady Universe.

Or is it just a wrong, too long, pretentious pseudo-song that makes me furious?

I guess I'm not talented enough to be brief.

Not even close.

On the other hand, I prefer my ****** to never end

and to spread the ecstatic light of my love as far as possible.

My thoughts are just too concentrated into one sharp point or a sticky, thick ball.

They have to be diluted with water

to be baked as waffles.

In addition, God opened my skull

and made scrambled eggs of my brains

to be served on a silver plate with trifles.

What a savory course, delectable meal,

too enlightening, delightful, and intellectual even for me

to be cooked, gulped, and pooped into a gold bowl.

Being an amazing, captivating puzzle

and attractive word construction,

it can bewilder and bedazzle,

bamboozle, distract from the world destruction

which is pretty scary,

like a bad dream,

a realistic nightmare, worth hiding from in a daydream.

So I cling to this shady verse not to forget it

so that I don't have to feel sorry for myself later and ******* regret it.

Follow the white rabbit.

Do you get it?

Neo, take the right pill.

Be the creator of your own reality inside the matrix

you see in 2D,

because you know that in the other reality is the other you.

Switch your attitude,

shift your mood.

Paradoxically as it may sound,

to stay adequate in this reality,

you gotta get higher,

go beyond its boundaries,

zoom out,

and see it from outside for a while,

reach for the opposite extreme

and feel grateful for the opportunity

to increase the potential for further growth

and follow your dream.

Lose your mind for some time,

as if you are madly in love,

eager to give yourself to this feeling completely.

It's also fine to be in a surprised state of mind,

like when through humor or inappropriate ******

you are freed, shocked, flashed, or mooned by someone just for fun.

Overcome the fear of leaving your comfort zone.

Lose yourself, but not for too long and too far

lest you get used to the new way of existence.

Keep the balanced distance

so that you could come back

before you forget how to be found,

being hopefully remembered at least by someone.

But, as you know, lost memory may return through a trigger, suddenly,

a trigger that can make you recall a forgotten dream.

The same mechanism,

because life is but a dream,

a dream within a dream

with nothing in-between.

You're allowed to do crazy things in your dreams as opposed to reality,

'cause you're basically unconscious,

I suppose, to get the full access to the freedom of will for your avatar,

when you are free from the system of rationality

and don't even notice being surrounded by nonsense.

When I OD on my dream, it engulfs me

and I become its slave.

But I can't bear the unbearable spirituality,

the thrill, filling my brain,

blowing my mind,

bearing me out of reality,

as if I'm inside and outside at the same time,

tripping to a new dimension,

blinded by it, like a mole on the concrete floor,

looking for salvation.

Just so you know, well, you know,

it has the power to burn, devour, and wipe you off the face of the Earth.

The mechanics is quite obvious.

When you overdose, the system registers errors

and the crash of your overwhelmed brain that can't keep pace with your thoughts.

It activates the programs of negative hormones to make you feel bad

so that you know that your good doesn't work.

So when you feel too good, it's bad,

'cause having fallen over the brink,

you may think you're still on board.

Yet, you find the opposite extreme

of life, which is the state of affect, in fact.

And you're toast. That's all.

Man, you can talk about this state of consciousness,

being in another one, as much as you want.

But all your words will stop making any sense,

as soon as you return to the first one.

So don't rock the boat.

At some point, you'll lose control.

This dope makes you, dupe, say "smart" stuff.

But every time, you, wise guy, somehow turn out to be Captain Obvious

with a perpetual motion machine, unstoppable engine in his ***

And you present the obvious as the truth,

simply ingenious for you.

Yeah, sometimes I come up with smart things.

Well, they are not that smart, to be honest.

**** them all.

Those thoughts are, like nice-assed blondies, ******* hos,

not smart but beautiful.

Also, being too smart in a stupid place can be pretty lonely.

So I find the right words to feel comfortable in this inhospitable world,

apparently, ruled by idiocracy,

pluck them right out of my dreams so I can grow

out of mundane mediocrity.

When you treat reality as a dream, though,

who enjoys all the freedom?

And what if he wakes up?

Will he remember it to read it?

Like he'd ever have any sentiments

for this epic monument to his character and his feeling.

Reality is relative, conditional.

It’s real only on condition that you take it seriously.

Are there other realities?

Do they really exist?

Any alternative reality proves that this one isn’t real.

See, it's an illusion, a magic trick.

But it's real for you, as long as you are a part of it.

And when you are in an alternate reality, you feel this.

Does it set you free?

There are many realities. Love is one.

Ha-ha. How serious.

Don't get lost,

and don’t forget to have fun.

Baby Steps

This piece of art is full of deceptively smart,

discombobulating, bombastic aphorisms,

idiotic idioms,

Sancho Panza's *** wisdom,

mind-puzzling tongue twisters, corny metaphors,

oversatiated with the false force

of never satisfying rhyming words anyway.

I'll eventually throw it away someday.

But not now, no. I won't leave it alone.

I'm not ready to let it go.

Although I know I am being greedy,

and I agree, duh, I do need it,

I am still thrilled to read it.

I don't want to part with it,

as if it is a part of me, and I'm a part of it.

This rough, raw draft is like a flimsy raft in the sea,

that goes with the flow to stay afloat,

not to drown and dissolve,

but to swim.

Yet, simultaneously,

I definitely gotta direct it somehow to where I need it to be,

approach the destination of my destiny,

where desperation’s unknown

in the dead silent pause

before the deafening squall of applause.

But now it's still a crass lump of sugar, slowly melting,

being imminently washed away by water in raccoon's paws,

slipping through fingers words,

filled with the meaning,

leaving me with an inexplicable feeling,

the majestic, magical sense in the system of the pure mind,

filled with glow,

a precious stone, almost stolen by a crow,

I enjoy watching.

But looking closer, one may notice

it's just a useless piece of coarse glass,

dirt, scooped up from the bottom of my soul.

I literally litter literarily,

drastically sarcastically spiritually,

a poet, obsessed with my own poem,

sick freak, losing my mind for a moment,

overachieving geek, falling in love for the first time

from the first sight with the first lines.

It could be called poetic, if not intimidating.

It's unforgivable. Can I forget it?

Maybe, not to be too crude straight away,

I should consider baby steps and gently start the process,

at least, with words first, let's say…

"Will you kindly ***** up your courage and hold it together?

What is the matter with you?

What, you stupid?

Are you insane?

******* ******

it's not funny, nor is it funky.

Bite the bullet.

Stop it, stupid. Wake up,

star-struck dumb ****

messy, ***** missy,

*****

Get real, naive dreamer, pathetic plagiarist.

Oh, sorry, yeah, right, I meant "parodist”.

A first-class clown-anarchist,

who's unaware that anarchy is for immature idealists.

Am I right? Is that what it is?

Otherwise, why do you prefer getting lost in your dreams

to simply being a realist?

Just lose it, change the ********* music,

deluded miserable loser!

It's hard to grow up. So what?

**** it up.

Face it, ******* ****

Cope with it, stupid ****

Just so you know, toilet poet, this mediocre piece of **** doesn't mean anything to me.

So for Christ’s sake, stop writing and reading it,

you idiot!

I don't give a **** *****

Toss it to the garbage.

To my mind, it's so disturbing, makes me cringe.

Stop wasting your time, acting like a system's glitch.

I'm putting my foot down, lousy clown,

***** **** ******* ****** ***** *****

Let it go or get lost in your god

and leave me alone."

"Well, if you say so…

On second thought, no, I won't.

In my god!

Oh, so what?

After all, it's your favorite word.

You use it a lot,

while you say you can live on your own.

Respectfully, I disagree.

What, you smart?

No, you're not.

You're just an ordinary idiot.

What?

You want a piece of me?

Uh-uh, shush, do not interrupt.

It's my turn now, I'm talking. Zip it.

I have a piece of advice for you too.

How about you shut up and eat me.

Now I suppose I got beef with you.

Is that what you want?

***** please.

I'm so cool that I'd **** myself.

So **** me, and **** you too.

What is the matter with ME?

Are you for real?

So much for the champion of morality.

Good God, what's the big deal?

You have got to be kidding me.

Or are you really some kind of ****** ***** or a imbecile?

And who the **** are you to judge me?

What the hell is wrong with YOU?

What are you ******** about?

Why do you care for preaching,

when you don't even like to teach, huh?

Must be some kind of breach, though.

If you feel so estranged from me,

why don't you build a bridge and get over it?

In any case, I don't need a teacher.

I'll learn on my own.

Should you still gonna teach me,

trying to beat me with the heavy artillery of a tough rhyme,

can I have this class on advanced rap really fast?

'Cause I don't wanna lose my time.

Otherwise, if I do, I'll make you go through some tough times,

'cause this time you'll have to deal with MY really rough rhymes.

And if you absolutely need to know,

I’m not insane. I’m in love.

Yeah, I know you think it's the same, but it's not.

So knock it off, ***** enough.

Shut your stupid big mouth and **** off.

***** you, tactless, unthankful, insensitive fool.

Oh, yeah, sure. Now you're so mature.

Cut me some slack, judgmental prima donna.

Without me, you'll feel empty and so lonely.

Just so you know,

I complete you, make you whole.

But I'd be cool without your concern, yeah,

and your pathetic rebuke.

I make you cringe?

You make me puke,

'cause you're getting my goat now.

And in my humble opinion, **** your opinion.

It's not even critical.

You're just being mean,

too subjective, basic, and hypocritical.

So take it back, or you'll regret,

'cause I'd be glad to shove it into your throat

to finally shut your ******* piehole.

On the other hand, thank you for your opinion.

I'll take it along with my own

and gracefully balance between them.

FYI, you can only pry this verse out of the dead grip of my corpse, dumb *****

Throw it away?

Are you ******* insane?

Listen to yourself!

What the **** are you saying?

Bite me and thanks a bunch,

**** you very much

for your ********* questionable,

supposedly encouraging, rather enraging,

arguable, pep talk,

so-called "motivational"speech.

Hogwash!

Go to hell and **** yourself,

get lost before you bite the dust,

gut-wrenching, nagging leech.

Or I'll make you put your ******* foot

in your filthy mouth

and won't let you take it out,

hold it till you swallow your own *****

How does that sound?

I'm through with people telling me what to do.

So go take a flying **** at a rolling donut.

I'm standing my ground.

If after all this, you still think that you won,

you must be a ****** believe it or not.

Well, you may believe whatever you want.

Let me be honest with you.

I'd like to enlighten you too.

I don't even need to prove you wrong,

‘cause that's what you prolly already know on your own,

though only subliminally,

since you are the one

who still wants to say something to me.

To my mind, you are out of your mind,

'cause it's not only yours, it's also mine.

If you don't see me any longer,

so long, then.

In my god, I'm dissolving."

Ok, that's it. I'd better get over with this ironic moronic controversial converse,

steeped in speculations, exaggerations, and, possibly, false accusations.

I'm done talking to me and myself,

don't know how else it's supposed to be said.

All I know is it's not supposed to be sad.

It's supposed to be fun.

Fake Poet

So **** being normal.

I, too, want to get through the time portal to become immortal alright.

Though, be careful what you wish for, right?

I don't like to hurt people's feelings,

but I'm tired of casting pearls before swine,

like humanizing spells on those who don't even need to be humanized.

It's venial for an artist to love his ego because he loves his art,

created by his personality which he sees as a work of art as well.

An author has to love his character so that the character should be alive.

That's why you create your alter ego as your best friend in your own image.

And to co-create with you, he wants to survive.

You are your soul.

What it is you don't know.

A universal actor,

playing your role.

As a character, you're made believe,

believe in yourself, illusive entity,

a part of the illusive reality,

captured by the soft strength of love, but free.

And since the observer can't be observed,

like the feeling, owning you, can't be analyzed,

this way, through co-creation, you talk with God.

**** that's ******* high Sci-Fi,

unlike some stupid Fan-Fi.)

However, had it occurred to you

that the real artist might be not you

but he, whom you talked to,

the character inside you?

That makes you who?

A god,

a director in charge of the plot,

or just a workaholic-perfectionist

under the mask of the artist?

Well, all artists are ****** up.

So welcome to the club,

home for talented human beings

with the divine energy inside

so you could imagine that you could see yourself from afar.

Yeah, I probly need a shrink, but I can't afford it.

And you know what? I think I actually don't even want it.

Neither do you, as your lyrics are your therapy.

I'd like to be among contented people,

people, interested in me,

loving me for who I am,

not for who they want me to be.

I try to keep people I like around me

and the light inside me.

But if I have to encounter negativity,

I know now, the best protection is to not give a **** about it.

There are no normal people on this planet anyway.

And it's okay,

'cause no one can be objective, being enthralled,

lost in an enslaving illusion, and this is normal, but at the cost

of critical thinking, common sense logic, of course.

Nor there's, unfortunately, any other mental institution, big enough for everyone.

Thus, paradoxically, it becomes normal

to lose marbles and get bonkers,

not to hear each other,

wearing space-suits of personal bodies.

At least we can have some fun

one way or another.

As verbal misunderstanding leads to endless self-expression.

So you can annoy and bore someone to death with your profound explanations.

See, there's no use of judging anyone

except for yourself, to whom you always have so much to say.

OK, I'll hold on to it for a while, let it stay

till this bunch of stupid words still makes my day, makes me smile,

also excited and even ecstatic,

because I'm probably an immature amateur and a frantic fanatic

quickly crossing the line without brakes,

'cause something's wrong with my brains,

overwhelmed with feelings spilling into words,

losing sight of the point of no return

or only pretending to be frenetic to look more charismatic,

merely playing the leading role of my own show,

at the same time, enjoying it, sitting in the front row,

covering the existential horror

of being engulfed by a disappearing feeling

with trash in my mind, waste of my animal soul,

hiding from problems, irreversible losses,

remorse, and sorrow behind my poems,

'cause, to be honest, it's frighteningly a lot to swallow.

At least, I have the strength to admit that I'm weak.

You, too, know it.

I may be a failed philosopher, artist depicting himself, if you will,

a fake, dead poet,

who, gazing in jaw-dropping amazement at the scary beauty

from the mysterious extraterrestrial tree of poetry

through spiritual junkie's eyes,

meditatively observes peacefully gliding swallows

and whizzing, gleefully squealing like little monkeys, weightless swifts,

deflecting thoughts from the constant, ruthless struggle for survival,

striving for life, fight for the right to exist.

I always notice these little joyous moments I can't let go of,

charming moments of bliss.

I try to capture them in persuasive, virtual words,

a recursive parody of fractals, shiny kaleidoscopic gems

of shattered glass, alas, to no avail,

catch the evasive, lucidly illusive, evanescent sense,

hidden behind the veil

or resurrect the piercing, genuine, ephemeral feeling,

recreate it as if I can remember it, while it always keeps saying farewell,

leaving me confusing cause with consequence,

perplexing reflexing, which coincidentally helped once survive

and became a perpetual part of a limited by it, endlessly enigmatic life.

It can make you stronger, traumatize you as well,

'cause it's as fast as pulling a trigger to exchange paradise for hell.

When I was a kid, I used to collect beautiful feathers,

as symbols of freedom,

dreaming of building wings

to fly to the star by the name of Sun

and see the world from afar one day.

Growing up, I'm collecting enchanting words,

being pretty careless about spelling, though,

in the hope that I'll create a magical spell

to conjure up anything I want,

say, a white horse or… no,

even better, a ******* unicorn,

of course,

so I could ride it to find the way out of the wrong fairy tale,

as if I'm afraid to lose the key from the lock on the door,

behind which there is a forgotten kingdom of a new world I’ve never seen before.

Any professional manifestator was an amateur dreamer in the beginning.

They say, for your spell to work,

you need to incantate and enunciate.

Well, you know.

But that's not all.

Don't forget about the feeling

that sets the course

with words for signs on the sides of the road.

So watch where you go.

Seriously, be careful what you wish for.

*Love Free ****** Humor*

Yeah, no **** you don't say! I can tell.

I seem to be so wise sometimes.

Being kinda kind, I am not wise or nice,

but when people see it in my eyes,

I don't mind also being polite

and lie, as I simply like to look likewise,

hiding my passion inside.

Lie, thinking I'm telling the truth,

lie to myself and to you.

I know I'm not the brightest star in the night sky.

Ah, come on, don't try to prove me wrong.

Don't be stupid, I'm not that smart,

albeit a little offbeat.

I'm even not too smart to be a ****

because I'm

a kindhearted person,

although a bit bothersome.

Well, how you like that?

Not bad for a horrendously cynical humorist.

And you know who a cynic really is?

As one of the greatest comedians said,

a cynic is a disappointed idealist.

At least I'm an honest hedonist

prone to fall in love with egoists,

selfishly believe false empathy.

It's so simple and obvious that it's ingenious,

even if it's a cliché in the thick postmodernism mist.

With you, I have the same ironical paradox,

as you are a free-spirited misogynist according to your controversial songs.

However, in all fairness, to avoid double standards, of course,

for the sake of argument, in other words, equal rights and feminism,

it's worth mentioning that women, too, can certainly be mean.

Apparently, one of them would be me.

But since you have the same shady clown as I do,

you know I only kid now here,

deep down inside, I'm good and kind,

like we all are sometimes.

But seriously, all jokes aside,

women are not that bad as stand-up comedians,

if you don't mind a feminine kind of humor,

which is supposed to be kinda kinder.

You may call it weaker, dumber,

ladies’ witty-titties jokes for losers, suckers, soccer mamas,

which is not very nice of you.

However, in general, it might be true,

provided, of course, that there are humor kinds.

I think there are none.

How would you call a man who grabs a pen and a bar of kids soap,

replaces the letter "s" with the letter "d",

and laughs at the "kids doap"?

And this guy is, what... like 50 years old?

I mean, what's his deal?

Is he some kind of imbecile?

Well, while one may not quite understand him,

he might be still pursuing a stand-up comedian career,

for even an average amateur, be it a uncouth peasant,

has the potential to become outstanding, magnificent, and splendid,

a sophisticated son of a ***** who at his age managed to keep the charm of being highly unpleasant.

There are many opinions about being fun,

while humor is one.

Neither does rap need to be defined

as poetry,

‘cause it is to me,

to my mind.

And for the rest of those who don't agree,

as home-grown critics and housewives,

I guess they, too, are quite all right.

Other than that, a woman is your problem one plus ninety-nine.

Yeah, women are mean, I mean. But that's fine.

And together with you, we are a humble, big god’s sneer at humankind.

Isn't it weird that made of a rib, having bitten the ****** apple, the first woman

was stupid enough to turn an ape into a fully fledged human?

Life is funny as it is.

What if God was one of us and had to deal with egoism?

Oh, yeah, I forgot.

We all live now in the era of postmodernism.

There's nothing new under the sun, dude.

Only the way to express yourself, subdued by a convincing fleeting feeling,

trying to shoot for the moon, I assume. Feel it.

It's not an invention,

just a euphoric wide-eyed eureka sensation,

out of zero and one, pile of combinations

of notional and semantic hallucinations

due to the lack of meditation

in the infinite number of unique situations,

miracle-like lyrical elevation,

limitational imitation,

metaphorical ********

sensational manipulation,

emotional liberation,

manifestational motivation,

pang of inspiration,

another recollection in your consciousness,

the figment of god's imagination,

spiritual ************

through brain stimulation

in the verbal life simulation,

Captain Obvious.

Nice choice of words,

looks like a can of worms.

Just a verbose neurosis, of course.

If not, I need a good doctor for the right diagnosis, I suppose,

in case I was misdiagnosed.

So stay out of my head.

Well, since you are already here,

don't stay in my head for too long.

I'm afraid you'll be drained,

'cause my graphomaniacal brain is insane.

Oh well, what the hell, yours is the same,

so I guess this is how a wordy-nerdy, ironic neurotic

makes love to his narcotic.

It's so poetically ******

for an oxymoronic introvert,

trying to find the balance

between extremes

in a sparkly dance

of a whimsical weasel, hopping in front of a rabbit,

distracted by hypnotizing patterns

on boa’s skin.

I must go higher than that

from the basement,

where I muss thoughts in my messy head,

like a neurotic tousles hair.

By the way, that would be me as well.

There, I admit I write, I'm a freak,

and I don't care.

Although you might want me to wear a disarming straitjacket

so I'd become a complete wacko,

be careful and gentle with me.

I can be too free and open-minded.

Mind it.

I mean, you have no idea what depths I can get into.

But most importantly, can I get out when I'm in, or do I even need to?

Though, I don't condone a ***** brain ****

that's gonna blow up with an aggressive verbal *****

surfeited with angry testosterone.

Come on, man, at least, please, put on a ******

Yeah, I'm a ***** funky ******

sympathizing with a sly Mona Lisa's condescending, stranger's smile at first,

bursting into sinister, Homeric, hysterical laughter of an old friend after,

snaring you with a snarling, daring smile,

the product of a cynical life satire,

making you lose yourself without a trace.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, exactly like that.

I gotta be sick in the head.

Boy, I wish I could bear this unpunishable feeling

of wearing the grim, evil grin of a villain on my face.

I hope I'm allowed to laugh out loud

at everything, especially at myself.

Isn't that what humor is for?

Not just for laughing at others to feel better about yourself.

That's too shallow.

Life makes you get up to the next level,

cuz it ain’t getting any sweeter or fairer.

I feel in this self-irony, there is always real, iron me,

like real chocolate is bitter.

Yeah, I hate this fake sweet, milk, sugar ****

The more bitter, the better.

I love when it blends with bananas on my tongue, melts slowly, flows in,

and becomes a sweet part of me.

In truth, humor is always dark, without sweetener

so that you can be free as a word

that may be harsh and sharp as a sword,

but also kind and soft as unconditional love of a strict mother,

which is the best reward for being hurt,

as if it's an award for being heard.

You know, this kind of love

when you give your all,

including your life,

to save your child

and do your best

to take care of your pet

because you love it.

It's not the same with women, I guess.

Sorry about that.

But I don't care if you were surrounded by seductive witches,

bloodsucking ******* and other supernatural creatures

you have no love left for.

It's not an excuse to give up on love, bro.

She will never give up on you,

as long as you believe in her.

To love and be loved by your woman,

you both just need to have the same sense of humor.

That's all.

See? The formula is simple,

like everything genial is.

And what do you do, genius?

Man, look at you.

You wallow in your philophobia and hate love you can't get rid of

for your ex to see

that you, too, are capable of misery,

trapped in your own house,

a prisoner of your fortune,

tortured by fears,

head over heels

in evil love.

Experienced as you might be,

you can't just **** it off.

It chases your graphomaniacal, necrophilic, cannibalic, diabolic kamikaze’s dead *** regardless of your sins.

You can't get rid of your empathy.

I get it. You don't like to look like a fool.

And love does make you feel stupid and look pretty foolish, for sure.

It turns you into a silly, paranoid idiot,

who smiles but can't let go of the thought

that he might need an antidote.

You feel annoyed, dumbfounded, stupefied, surprised, and at the same time stressed,

as if you have a finger in your ***

“Am I having a panic attack?

********* What the ****

In addition, you get immediately addicted,

dependent, vulnerable, and sick, bro.

And this addiction causes a cognitive contradiction,

when you lose marbles behind your head's cogs.

Are you afraid of your heart to be broken?

That's why you pretend that you ain't got one,

‘cause it was broken a long time ago.

And you keep it this way behind the closed door

but want it to be opened by someone,

not knowing that it can never be really closed,

just like Pandora's box.

How does it make you feel weak,

when it's supposed to make you strong?

Maybe the angle from which you look at it

is wrong?

Being single, like a god, you are potentially with everyone.

Love doesn't have to weaken you

or necessarily be a disaster or a collision.

You can sound perfectly good in unison,

albeit not for long,

if you again prefer the game to love.

I, on the other hand, can't help following this awesome feeling.

I love being in love despite the fear of falling out and being left sore.

And I love you for the same thing I hate you for.

Adorned with gloating goat's horns,

a morose sulky-faced great poet and a grim rapper I adore

turns into the great Grim Reaper

that equalizes all divided by different gods people,

who are stuck in the holy ****** trinity of evil ill stupidity,

living on behalf of the golden calf,

dying in the name of love,

awaiting miracle from nowhere to nowhere

for the sake of Jesus ******* Christ

or some other god. Right?

Whoopsie-daisy!

This is egregious, insulting, and crazy.

I'll be ****** or crucified by medieval evil people

if you don't shut me up fast!

Yeah, y’all throw your stones and torches,

pitchfork me and scorch me.

Burn the witch, dying for love and your sins,

who deserves your tortures.

The weaker *** is strong through love

and through its nature, makes its fortune.

Wait…

a minute.

Hold the horses, *********

Are you really gonna burn me?

**** **** this planet!

Do I look like a strong, confident, **** woman,

who knows what she's doing?

I guess, it's best to be famous without showing your face,

‘cause as soon as people see your face,

they start chasing your ***

for multiple reasons,

such as:

for some people, for instance, some of my words may sound disgusting.

They just fear believing they're flabbergasted.

You don't wanna be one of them fools, trust me.

These things might be not simple

for understanding by the majority of people,

‘cause it's sorta absurd.

A judgmental Christian is an oxymoron.

Saint hypocrites.

What, am I too straightforward for ‘em?

Can pigs fly, though?

Are aristocrats poor?

Yeah, it sounds insolent, but it's true.

Sorry, I tend to be rude,

when you are being mean to me too.

I know that I know nothing

and no one can know everything.

But everyone can go **** themselves

and be self-sufficient.

Of that I'm sure.

Maybe we should shift the perspective,

find the right or better point of view,

and change the attitude?

The world is full of idiots. So what?

The world is full of idiots, old farts.

You don't want to be inside this farce.

But just in case, get ready to go nuts.

Even a guru can become a doddering fool, though.

Why is it like this? I don't know.

Because life is a joke?

And to laugh at it, you need to suffer first?

So be grateful for this humorous energy, even when it's aimed at you.

Try not to be too indecently arrogant a genius

who has nothing else left to do

than to shoot himself,

'cause he's surrounded by ******** idiots and degenerates.

Thanks for support, your painful honesty of a bulldog,

the way you bogart the way to the fame you hate,

your boundless kindness, Your Highness

or Majesty, or should I say,

incredible, phenomenal, omnipotent, iconic rap god.

Why do you love to laugh at people's vices,

like a big fat hungry troll,

sitting with his smart ***

on the fence of a deep defense,

which is the best as a good offense.

Why can't you be as nice as, for instance, Jesus Christ, though, bro?

It's not that hard, after all

with your free mind, open wide so.

Aren't you tired of your own satire,

trying to satisfy your always hungry mind,

and being a king, constantly proving the right to the crown?

Now, look what you've done.

Why would you need to spoil all the fun, sad clown?

Because you are the smartest one?

Does Slim’s rest in peace deep under the ground make you less depressed

or serious as a cardiac arrest?

So smart that no one understands you.

Man, you might be writing stupid thoughts

due to the intelligence overdose.

No one can cancel your show or fit in your shoes.

Maybe you are too smart even for rap.

**** it. Perhaps you could put your brain to good use

by locking yourself in a rocket scientist's lab.

But even there, you'll have a pen with a notebook in your pocket

for ideas, pushed out of a fat ***

rather than pulled out of thin air, I'm sure.

***** this, I guess, this disease has no cure.

Oh my God!

Does it have to be this hard?

Why is making a point for you like doing a stunt?

I would make it easier,

if I were that smart.

I get that. It's a self-defense mechanism.

If you absolutely must, I'm all ears.

So you do your own stunts, huh?

All right.

Does it make you feel satisfied

or a little better than an ordinary grumpy grandpa, old ****

No, yeah, you're right.

You're not that old.

That's why you snipe with snarks as a snide snipe,

but, like Wesley, still precise,

till your enemy runs out of ammo, or it backfires

so hard that you wish you carried a gun,

like you used to.

That's a shame, you now have none.

A fire marshal without a firearm.

Good thing I got one.

Lucky me, I'm not you.

Thank God, I can't fill your shoes.

What are you still doing here, old man?

Dreaming of being a digital avatar,

while even the paper you use to write on is not digital?

If you were older, I'd call you an ancient dinosaur,

and, instead of a Blackberry phone,

you'd prolly own a typing machine gun.

Aren't you a bit too old to troll solo?

Troll-lo-lo, it seems so trollop-like low,

bitter, pathetic, and shallow.

You troll when you feel bad.

And so you share,

trying to hurt someone to feel a bit better.

Instead, you're unaware of how it gets even deeper

and makes you feel weaker,

if it's not the trolling as art

that makes sense

and gives you satisfaction and profit,

like ***

for a ********** if she were your occasional girlfriend.

You'd sing her your songs.

She'd sing you her own,

filled with ecstatic moans

so you could spread her legs

along with your peacock's tail

ahead of the rainbow, to run,

as everyone here has no brain.

To the very last one, all are dumb.

However, just for your information,

on the way of looking for fools,

don't forget that you might be the one,

‘cause trolling, like humor, is often an unpleasant truth

you should be able to laugh at without judgment or justification.

And you may say you don't give a **** as much as you want.

But all ********* sooner or later

end up being torn to pieces by alligators,

as you already know.

Don't get me wrong.

I hope you don't think I envy you.

With my bird-watching skills,

I coulda been an ornithologist by now,

for your information.

If you don't wanna be miserable and alone,

baby, get down from your throne.

Or should you be higher than that,

well, then stay the **** god.

I wish I could help you, but you don't really want it,

and I cannot.

I'm not your saviour.

You need a real doctor.

I'm not qualified for that.

Nor am I a loser enough to be a hero

and unsolicitedly give you all I've got,

since, despite being overwhelmed with compassion,

I'm also full of **** a spoiled, bad girl,

so empathetically selfish and special.

My body doesn't grow up anymore.

It can only grow old

until it's finally cold,

while my soul still keeps growing, though.

I feel my soul is already too big and too old for this world,

'cause it just doesn't fit into this ********

man gets in through a ****

Oh dear Lord, Holy Mother of good God,

how the **** can I say that?

So what?

I believe I can say whatever the hell I want.

Isn't that what we're supposed to have the freedom of speech for?

We need virtual evil

to keep the virtuous Utopia ideal

and find the balance between ‘em.

Boy, you, too, must be that impudent, testy, despicably obnoxious, squalid and perverse

to be worthy of your own words!

God almighty, have mercy on us, sinners.

See? We can be good.

Well, then, I guess, Jesus will just have to forgive us

providing, of course, we are truly sorry and are true believers.

Since we halfway to be saved,

let's play, I'm bored.

Not board games, though.

My self-esteem now is so low,

going down below the floor,

sometimes it's subzero,

maybe because I am too high

so I could see how my self-esteem started to grow.

So don't worry about me, man. I'll be fine.

**** me, my friend. I'll survive.

Rap, as in do or die,

like it's the last day of your life.

Roast me.

Promise it will be awesome.

Torture me till I'm toast, or I find the way to blossom

through concrete like a stubborn ****

No need to go easy on me.

C’mon, man, once again, one more time.

**** me, my friend,

like Kurt Cobain sang.

**** me with your words and tear me apart.

Go ahead, do your thang.

Play me hard.

Poke a ****** sacrifice her.

Blow out her teeny-tiny brain.

Bake me, burn me in hell for my sins, god

I'm not the only one,

one of the victims of your art,

lyrical serial killer, ***** shady maniac.

Set me on fire, lord of the words

that you learned from comics

to enhance your performance,

ignite my mind and heart,

with your satisfying, piercing voice,

nail me, impale me,

make me, be my ******* boss.

Hey, **

Not with a pitchfork, though.

What the **** bro?

Easy. Yo, chill, man, will ya?

Why did you bring that thing, huh?

What, you're Aquaman,

******* Poseidon?

For real? Ha-ha.

Seriously, what for?

Does it make you drown faster

or give you the superpower of niceness?

No?

Well, feel the kick and fly, then.

Ah, self-defense.

Oh, yeah, I forgot.

Your superpower is anger.

Okay, then, let's dance.

But what if I take the superpower of love?

Come on, man, all jokes aside,

I could expect anything from you,

like a rifle, knife, or a sword.

Yet, you brought that?

I thought, most of all, you preferred a chainsaw.

**** so I guess now I can't expect you to be nice

to my wise *** I'm ****** anywise.

And yo’ **** will be engulfed by all my holes.

Sorry for the pornographic ***** metaphor.

There's no harm in a little bit of ***** poetry, though, I guess.

I'm straightforward like that,

pierce with a pen, mercilessly gore,

write honestly, like a *****

Oh, well, as well as you, so

don't mind my cussing,

'cause I like to sound beautifully disgusting.

Well, you know.

I just love this lingo vocabulary, vernacular architecture of slang,

cuz I was raised among gangsters and thieves

in the country of sorrow and tears.

It probly sounds worse than it actually was

because the past is in the past,

and now it is what it is.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned

I believe that speech must be free.

So be it, yes, I agree.

I am crude in my verses sometimes,

as well as in life,

but true and free as wind,

free from everything except rhymes.

I believe all words are good and equal like us, people by default.

Yet, it's hard to be hot,

when the context is hostile and cold,

when you are surrounded by cretins, criticizing everyone except themselves.

Wrong again, critics?

It’s not like the so-called “good” words are true,

and the “bad” ones are false,

as if it’s a war

of the words that you like

against those that you don’t.

So are they now a lie? Why?

Just because you think so?

But the truth is that often the truth is unpleasant to hear and to know.

See, these are the words you don’t like, though.

Everyone thinks according to the level of his sins.

Well, I don't give a **** what you think

regardless of whether it's right or wrong.

How can you, fools and hypocrites, limit art?

It's endlessly boundless in its variety, like God.

And there is no human mortality for God,

as the main art is life.

While your free will is limited by his plot,

it has no boundaries inside your mind.

I love each and every word I wrote,

like an ornithologist loves all the birds.

I love them all

equally in the context of my flow.

Word.

I'll show you why.

Check this out.

Here is the concept for y’all to trip on.

If the words are used, they are needed,

like the spectrum of all the feelings.

And if the words are needed, they are all equal.

Or you can pretend to be a xenophobic god

in your own fairy-tale sequel,

verbal Utopia, perfect world.

Well, I don't give a **** about censorship,

not gonna put up with some censurer's **** God forbid.

I find censoring insensitive,

truth be told.

I wonder if there are utopias in any of the worlds,

and why everyone tries to drag you into their own.

I guess this **** is universal.

As for me, I think, Utopia might be possible

if everyone could eat their own ****

Oh, if only everyone shat manna from heaven

and were happy with themselves forever.

So I use “bad” words in the right context and call it a joke.

I attire profanity in rhyme to refine the bad with the beauty of my mind.

And you can criticize it as much as you like, ********

Guess what? I also don't give a **** about what you want,

especially if your sense of humor is at the level of an old ****

What's the matter?

Too “kind” to notice the context behind the fence of the holy rightness,

‘cause, apparently, you are the best representatives of the whole humankind,

albeit a bit biased and blinded by righteous wrath towards “bad” words,

but always ready to save the rest of humanity with your perfect morality?

Go nuts. Be my guest.

Should you take offense instead of a joke,

it's your problem and your fault

if you don't dare to be free and bold,

having got used to doing as you're told.

If all you can is mumble, stutter, and choke,

I'll only help you with pushing your *** down the stairs

and stare at you stumble over your throat and fall.

And I don't care if you're scared or hurt.

Who said life was fair?

You'll always be its ***** fool, and a scapegoat.

So whatcha gonna do about it?

Fight it, pen in hand for a pistol to release pent-up bile

(epistula non erubescit, right?)

or suppress your pain until it subsides

in the convenient, cozy kindness of self-justifying lies,

being frightened?

Go ahead, man.

It must be exhausting to bear the burden of tears and fears

kept inside of you all those years.

**** ‘em. What's the worst that can happen?

Will your world have to endure the Armageddon

without deranged truth seekers, unhinged fairy tale believers?

Are you afraid of being burned in hell

or expelled from the league of imbeciles?

Drop the heavy load of guilt towards hypocritical sinners.

But if you can't face the apocalypse or find an argument,

don't start to argue, man,

lest you be trying to justify yourself again.

The devil lives in the details,

god in conceptual fairy tales

so that your life would look more meaningful and believable,

like a stand-up joke.

And if it's lethally funny, I'll laugh my *** off

till I have a heart attack or a stroke,

regardless of what you think, so no offense.

Take it easy before the converse stops making sense.

That's my truth.

It doesn't need to be proved

and doesn't have to be approved.

It's just my mindset, my worldview.

You can't be me. I can't be you.

Life is very funny if you have the ability to notice it.

Even after I die, my killing sense of humor will stay alive.

That's why we have immortal souls to laugh at our mortal bodies.

Yo, how come all the bad stuff is mostly fun?

'Cause humor is dark as death equally for everyone?

And without evil, good is hard to understand?

It's actually the essence of humor to laugh at fools from afar

instead of getting stuck with them in a joke, duh.

By taking offense at something clever,

you look stupid and deprive yourself of the chance to learn from it and reach a new level.

But the truth is, no one among even the smartest people

is smart enough to outsmart the deadly, evilly funny Grim Reaper.

So I don't have to be a saint anymore.

Let me be your slave of love, so to speak,

your insanely in love, queen Margot.

Set me free from the fear of being lost, come along.

You will be my Woland and my Master.

Seize the moment as if you can hold it,

like it's a masterpiece manuscript and you can't burn it.

Stop time, just grasp it faster

as though you are a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat

to let it jump into nowhere,

turning into a crazy kamikaze kangaroo.

Like a reused ****** out of a rabbit hole, you pull off another last trick.

There's no magic in that.

Don't wanna be judgmental, but you're just a boastful monster and a slim slick,

good for nothing but a fling,

seen in a flick

on a big screen

in one hot, short love scene,

jerking me off as always, bag of *****

Son of a ***** I feel the terminal stage of love still lasts, though.

Do you feel me?

I think you do.

I would sell my soul to you

if it weren't priceless.

Oh, man, not again!

Yo, this ****** up love is a ********* disaster!

Goodbye kiss joke

I gotta turn the page before it's too late,

and unrequited love inevitably turns into savage hate,

before I'm ****** into rage and end up in the stage of a vicious rampage.

I don't want to stay in the cage of a malicious fake fate.

It's not like I will shout about my feelings at the top of my lungs,

"Oh, I'm gonna cry right now.

Listen to me, everyone!

That's it, I don't give a **** or even a spit

at your tombstone.

I'm through with you! We're ******* done!"

**** your petty pity! I don't need it.

I should have gone away a long time ago before the **** hit the fan

and I got the loaded gun demanding more

from you than I think you can think

of who you really are,

word master.

Cut the crap.

Don't give me that horsecrap rap trap ********

priggish, perverted, impertinent *******

I'm full of it.

Half of your art is about showing off your art,

you arrogant, swaggering braggart,

wacky soul-’n’-mind-fucking ******

self-absorbed wanksta-poet, superstar, demure poser

composing your mind,

careless about mine,

soul-exhibitionistic imposer.

If I may ask,

are you comfortable with your ******** in your ***

I think, I'mma just bust a cap

and **** the King Kong with a big ****

who claims to be the god of rap,

destroy the crazy dopest goat,

the best representative of hip-hop,

my dreary Moby-fucking-Dick.

You're just a mythical ghost,

uncatchable Bigfoot,

deserted mirage,

stupid moon on a stick.

You don't own me,

'cause you don't know me,

you're not my homie,

and I don't owe you ****

I'm not a part of your entourage,

not your groupie,

hanging on your huge, impossible-to-swallow ****

who's so ******* lucky just to **** it.

Stop being so stupid,

big-headed, twisted ******* *****

Sorry for being rude again.

But you don't expect me to be happy about letting you drag me into your retinue, do you, my man?

I'm not afraid to be ashamed

of something that I don't understand,

'cause when I finally realize that I'm not a fan or a stan,

I'll only get better.

You don't deserve me. *******

I don't wanna be your fan.

Sure thang.

You may think there can't be ex-fans of yours, like there are no ex-drug addicts.

Yeah, right. You wish. Why don't you write a song about it

to convince me again that you still can?

Can you, really?

I don't believe you.

I think you're lying. Are you?

As if people still require

your daring dire satire

with vile iron ire

and want to keep their eye on

your iron ginormous *****

too big for your pants.

Do they still write your words on the walls

and watch your wars

full of spite and wrath

till your last breath,

till life ***** you to death?

And the best part is, being ***** by it,

you have to take pleasure in it.

Real legends don't get old.

They burn fast like shooting stars.

You've had your chance and missed it, though,

having tried to compensate for it later

with the magnificent rehearsal.

Since no one was good enough to ****** you, so to speak,

**** you lyrically,

you did it yourself,

albeit just for fun.

What a shame.

Jesus died once again,

as a cartoon character.

Or is it another, shady Jesus Christ

as in, antichrist?

Or has Jesus Christ actually been killed twice?

Well, luckily, now I'm armed with a gun,

loaded with a shitload of rap crap

and ready to do some serious harm.

Yeah, it’s not a mic, nuke, or a bazooka.

But in your hitman's hands,

it’s still dangerously good-looking

a lot like a hot rod from God

or a bad, damaged ******

Boy, are you stern and cold.

Thank God, not dead yet, though.

Seriously, man, can I offer my help,

immortalize and save your art

before it gets ugly, and you get cancelled

by some stupid cancer

so you could stay forever young?

Most people can't do it, pathetic peasants,

but you can, sir.

Would you agree to partake in

your assassination scene

with the full *********** of a bullet

into your brain to find a deep sense within?

Let me set you free.

‘Course, I know, you're not that old,

though old enough to write a memoir

or shoot an autobiographic documentary,

and definitely old enough to wear a beard

to show the whole **** world

that half of you has disappeared.

"A beard is a symbol of wisdom," I heard today from a passer-by.

And here you are again,

a dreamy boy with a beard, trimmed slim,

resembling a promiscuous, shady lady, wild jade, luscious ***** succulent vamp, **** *****

with a wise *** and an unshaved ******

with the price tag of an arm and a leg,

mooning and flashing noble knights in shining armor,

lascivious transgenders, grafs Suck-you-offs,

all kinds of **** ******** midgets and ***** dwarves.

They are just looking for some nookie with a ****** for sure,

a ***** they can treat like ****

**** a hot dame for a dime.

And now that your dream came true,

and you are the ****

they all can eat you and die.

Oh, well, it’s so **** nice.

To minx or not to minx?

I guess, it's not for you to decide.

Boy, you must be such a wise guy.

Why?

‘Cause your self-esteem is extremely high,

and you lack the code

that could make you get slow,

as in a chip, built in hardware of an old smartphone?

No limits, huh?

What, you a god?

Duh.

Big deal, ***** so am I.

Ha-ha. See how you crack me up?

God, are you so funny and smart,

just walk and emit laughing but lethally poisonous gas,

cracking out of your cranky wise ***

Dude, you are hilarious

and obviously wise enough to improvise with the smartest ******** rhymes in yo' freestyle,

the best emcee so everyone can see

the master of controversy,

the main character and the actor in one,

a white-trash intellectual rapper,

illiterate genius, pain in the *** wiseacre,

American dream *******

who can use rap as a gun.

But that's not all.

The tip of the iceberg,

though enough for Titanic to go down.

I'm just saying it to you in case you didn't know, lord of ******

Yeah, all women like to laugh at men's stupid, obscene jokes, spiced with ******** slurs

till they don't even notice how they're being laid already and treated as they all deserve, as ******* ******* hos.

By the way, grandpa, how's your sight, sugar level, and blood pressure?

Must be not that bad, since you eat beets.

Sure, you’re still the greatest of old time, my precious.

Are you still young enough

for a one-night stand with your female fan

or at least for a kiss with your stan in love

right from the stage

to prove that the devil doesn't age?

Or have you changed and grown up

to not give a **** about getting old, my love?

You are getting darker than the eclipse

and brighter than the sun.

Don't burn me, falling in agony, please.

You look so lonely, 'cause you are the only one.

Wow, are you on fire

not only when you are on tour,

always worth the coin of the admiring rich and poor.

Be careful, don't burn off entirely, mon amour.

My tirelessly singing paradise bird,

my dear dark sire, saint lord,

I don't really wanna lose you too soon,

my king and my god.

Shoot! Sweet rap messiah, you're not dying, are ya?

Unless maybe just the hair

that used to be blond, now brunette.

What’s up with that?

At least you are not bald or gray-haired.

Man, even your abdomen's still impressive

for someone who used to be obese,

which is, in fact, quite an achievement, considering you were a scrawny kid.

Ah, come on now, you know I only kid.

So you got a little bit fat,

when you meditated and self-medicated your body with mom's spaghetti,

while being a depressed mess.

Compared to your super abs,

mine are fluffy love handles.

So you must have done hundreds of sets of fifty press reps,

reciting yo' baddest raps

mind-blowingly fast,

pretending to be a badass

so you could overcome thousands of eighth miles

in his shoes, literally running away from your demons

to look like you look now,

handsome evil genius.

See? It did work out,

as you still do.

By the way, I make stuff up and work out too.

Sorry for my straightforward poetry.

But that's what I love to do the most,

although sometimes I can't control it,

the mean, itchy urge to troll someone.

I know, I act like an immature clown.

What you gonna do?

You gotta slay the dragon once in a while.

I believe I can **** the heckling troll in me,

occasionally controlling me,

like a manipulative ventriloquist or a puppeteer,

pretending to me my consciousness without a guilty conscience,

hurting people's feelings without shedding a tear,

one for all, two in one, slaying enemies, fearless musketeer

with the self-esteem of a glorious pioneer.

Unfortunately, the irony with killing a troll is that after you **** it, you become one.

So lest you be trapped in this endless vicious circus,

it's best not to even start saying anything to him in the first place

if you don't want this outcome,

because all your words, projected onto someone who can use ‘em against you,

will be not just spat into your face

but poured as projectile vomiting on you.

Instead of answering to someone's evil with your own evil in return to balance it up,

it may be a better idea to not open the door to a controversial, truth-sicking dispute of fools.

Do not let it in to keep the balance you've already got.

This **** usually escalates

like the snowball effect, which, by the way,

also happens with your fandom.

Does it have to be this big a deal?

Now, I can see that you have succeeded,

but your expectations have been exceeded.

Still, only you are to blame,

‘cause you make too much fuss about yourself.

Then you complain about your fame.

What for? Oh, yeah I forgot.

You're a rap god.

Oh, please. Come on, man. Now you're also a responsible grown-up,

who mustn't forget

that you get what you think,

manifest what you sing,

nothing more than that.

So let's not play victim, playing God.

How many times do you have to explain

and scream as if no one can hear you?

How to not give a **** about emotions that seize you?

I wish I could.

The case is, you can't.

Otherwise, you'd be a lifeless robot.

You can only shorten a pre-self-reflection span

to patch things up after they have been broken

and become a survival perfectionist,

professional emotional equilibrist.

And why should I sympathize with prima donna's pain anyway?

Now what?

Today is your birthday?

And again you look

like you're sitting all alone in your mansion on a bidet

that, like your elevator, got broken too?

That's not an excuse for getting your head into the loop.

Come on, man, hang in there.

Cheer up. Smile.

This joke made my day.

It's a beautiful life and a big day.

Babe, be happy. Happy Bday.

No? Hey, no way, not again.

Are you ******* kidding me or yanking my chain?

Well, to figure this out, I think I do have half a brain.

It depends on the context. I see, man, okay.

You may say in a movie, you're gay,

guess the taste of ***** of your spray,

while in a song, you state you're straight.

Ha-ha. Hey, it's funny, like a gay-looking boy with a beard on a straight face.

How can anyone consider your way of exorcising demons through a joke to be not funny but mean?

It's beyond me.

Okay, then. Tease me again, please.

I'll indulge myself in one last princess's caprice

before I give you a goodbye kiss.

Besides, words are often useless.

If a troll is too annoying, just kick him in the nuts.

They’ll blow up, and he's gone.

And even if a snowman would happen to be the biggest troll of all trolls,

kick him with his own big yeti’s foot in his snowballs.

Well, what you know?

I guess, Shady is in everyone,

like God lives in us

along with our angels and demons,

a lost soul of a prodigal son,

created and forsaken by the Father

in the name of the Holy Spirit

for him to be found and saved by himself in the idea,

made up for believing,

banished from heaven,

abandoned forever,

deprived of his dead god’s love

to find his own.

Thus, two become one,

I mean two in one,

one, embedded into the other one,

forming a holy *********

in a dualistic system,

dualism in a trinity

with the central singularity -

the single moment of infinity.

Amen.

And I'm in it as well.

Wait a minute.

Why am I in it?

Love the game?

Why are we doing this, again?

Right, 'cause we have no choice.

Or I just like to think so.

Anyway, it's all your fault, my friend.

Yes, it is.

I cannot blame myself for your sins.

But I don't mind forgiving me mine.

Since the sinner is you, I am a sinner too.

So **** this! As you are one of a kind,

here is one last goodbye kiss on your soft lips.

Now, baby, please, get down on your knees,

beg for mercy, pray to spare your life

or kiss your *** goodbye.

But say it with passion, like you mean it,

so I believe you.

Say it, or I will **** you.

And I won't even miss you, reminisce about you,

feel guilty for this innocent crime inside my criminal mind.

And in case of being arrested and indicted,

I'll plead the fifth and be just fine.

So, have a nice rest (spoiler: five minutes left) of your life,

then say hello to my poetry,

and rest in peace in the hell of poetry, rappers’ paradise,

where you'll continue spitting rhymes

about sins and crimes.

Man, I don't wanna dis you,

but since you kinda want this, I think,

I promise the last thing you'll see

will be me, writing here my thoughts of you, spitting a rhyme.

How can I possibly be responsible for a person I don't even know?

I don't believe I'm supposed to be. Why should I?

Nor do I have to care for taking his problems as my own to solve, after all.

Also, call me a ******

but I'd rather decide for myself once and for all

that I don't have any problems at all

not to solve non-existent ones anymore.

Calm down, diddums.

What's the matter?

You don't like to be dissed?

Well, then, I hope you didn't read

about this ugly thing I just did.

But if you did, do tell me more about this.

And try not to be mad at me, please.

You know I don't really jeer, just cheerfully tease.

Consider it my dissertation on the dark shady matter,

not sophisticated enough, maybe

to be philosophically labelled.

Will it stop you from spitting out your truth?

I'm sure you'll say no, won't you?

I thought so. I know it. I want you to be brutally true.

That's what I love about you.

I get that, I do.

You noodle, twaddle, scribble and doodle, complain, skedaddle from your pain

to replace it with people's wheedling fondles, cuddles, canoodles

to feel worthy of their love again,

being just a crying for help, desperate for love *****

sharing with them your diseases.

Hey, ** everybody wants ya.

And this drug is stronger, niggler.

It's worse 'cause it works without words.

Too much?

Yeah, well, I'm a natural. Thanks a bunch.

Calm down.

Will you relax, please? Jesus!

Even though you're a ******* **

pregnant with yourself and your precious thoughts,

there is nothing to be ashamed of.

Yo, ** ** **

There's nothing wrong

in being a holy-mother-of-god-ly horrifying *****

immoral motherfuckin' horror.

Yeah, I know you're ******

I just want you to see how serious this is.

Why the **** do you still need this?

When will you be finally satisfied?

When you have all the words rhymed?

Can't grow up?

Aw, poor thing.

The more approval from people and awards you get,

the more you want,

'cause it doesn't really give you anything,

can't fill your eternally hungry black hole,

greedy *****

full of yourself, but still hungry.

Yeah, you go and hate that ***** fight it.

Make it right, causing mayhem, poetic justice riot,

'cause you can't satisfy it.

Now, I know it's not yo' fault

that you were born in this horrible world

with initial talents and sins in your genes, inherited from your parents,

as you know, the **** just can't fall far from the *** according to the physics laws.

Life treats you like you're a naughty, crying child,

and your mother doesn't give a **** about you,

'cause she's got used to.

Then you learn to appreciate it when you grow up

and feel evil love in a laughing child's suffocating hug

on kitten's neck that now belongs to you,

while you are still a whining sinner,

smart mocking monkey, offended by life,

pretending to be a winner,

drowning in the sea of guilty conscience,

justifying yourself with words,

cuz you can't swim in it,

going down on a sinking boat.

So now all that's left for you is to stand up for yourself and become your own god

who was so depressed because of being alone

that he created the whole world to feel love.

You have so many stories to say back to this world now,

‘cause it's you against the world,

with yourself, at war.

And you may call yourself a serial killer,

but you are not even a real sinner

if you still cannot

nail or crucify your god.

Dang!

See ya in hell.

Bang!

Booyaka! The motherfucker's killed by his ******* nuts stalker.

The Grim Reaper's buried under the tree of poetry,

which has grown right through this poem, his tombstone.

We'll see what I can reap out of this rap goats’ cemetery,

except for what I've already been bestowed upon

and, in fact, have sown.

Life's a short road from your mother's womb to the graveyard tomb anyway.

******* I’ll prob’ly just end up lis’ning to yo’ hip-hop again.

Ah, whatever.

I've already sewn the whole reality out of trivialities

and wove the underwear out of clichés for you to wear on the stage.

Don't wanna wear it?

Really? All right.

What's the matter?

Stage fright?

Just kidding.

I know you can make a fool of yourself

and (smile) laugh your *** off on the inside.

Shoot!

Here comes the lunatic’s cadaver.

Don't worry, I'll resurrect you

after you've got dissected.

Abracadabra.

See? It wasn't that bad.

You're not really dead,

like your mom or your dad.

You’ve just grown up to be free from them now completely

if you accept it.

Nor are you really brought to life,

rap god.

Ok, I won't dramatize, or I may get traumatized.

I gotta stop, lest I be found dead in bed in my own house,

stabbed to death with your **** in my mouth

in a **** successful attempt to shut me up.

My bad. I apologize.

Let's call it even

or love, even if it's evil.

I can sound not very nice at times.

I'm sorry if I was too honest,

sorry for all I've said before

and in advance,

for everything I'll say after.

You know I'll make it up to you. I promise.

My words will make you craftier and tougher

so that again I can unpurposely be *******

for stupidly not noticing when I am crude.

I'm not afraid of mistakes and difficulties.

At least, I'd like to think so.

What did you expect, though?

You are a rapper.

Every your fan is your potential hater,

hungry, greedy, disrespectful,

tired of waiting,

starting to love you, ready to hate you,

hatin’ lovin’ you.

Or am I wrong again?

Does it make me a fake fan?

Let's end it, step aside for a moment,

pretend that we can be normal

for some time,

that we are fine for now,

'cause it's pretty stressful to be obsessed.

So just in case, let's make it at least less intense

lest we get tired of too much offense.

We'd better go back to tender love

in lieu of rough, outrageous, brain-raping-and-breaking ***

Relax, I'm joking, not trynna shoot ya, **** ya, or choke ya.

Not really killing anyone here.

Just kidding, having some fun with you, dear.

Evil Love

‘Course, I know you’ll always be my master, but it’s okay,

‘cause masters also depend on their slaves.

I think you understand that there would be no you as you are now

without me and your fans.

When you make jokes to yourself in your songs,

aren't you glad when someone believes you and sings along?

Gods exist as long as we believe in 'em.

And God is your witness, stans can believe,

as they feel love, no one can live without.

So they listen to your albums to and fro,

like it's your **** in their heads, moving in and out, bro

as if for foretasting and delaying ******

By the way, what's up with your fanatical bots?

Man, you know, I don't ******* like it

when your butthead bot-like fans, cooking up their idol

out of themselves, insane impostors,

stupid rookies, a bunch of clowns with clone accounts,

pathetic imitators,

************* fakers,

*********** impersonators,

poor sick dumb ********

millions of ******** minions,

limitless hordes of tedious idiots,

boring unstoppable morons

seek for my attention and approval,

**** me off, and

at the same time make me laugh, 'cause

they keep mistaking me for one of them, your AA support group,

godforsaken flock, your army of lovers,

wrapped around your middle finger,

breathtaking, irresistible humdinger.

Be careful what you wish for, bro.

Now that you found your flock,

it will never let you go.

This phenomenon is called a personality cult.

You can't love everyone equally like a god.

Being everywhere, you are nowhere,

engulfed by Love,

like your rhymes in your notebook,

scattered around the globe.

The power you've got is too strong.

It holds you too and loves you back.

You could be something more

than someone who wants to rap

till 100 years old.

And now we'll never know.

Oh, well, to hell with that.

Indeed, why be somebody else,

when you can give 100% of your essence to rap

and be a god,

tragicomic hero of a comic book,

iconic, unadulterated perfectness of hip-hop?

I guess, this power and fame,

like a drug, are bound to drive you insane.

Thanks to the freedom of speech in your brain’s fat neurons' tyranny,

resembling a small dictator with a tiny pecker,

bossy ***** of his posse,

who married a country,

you married a game.

I know to leave is hard as ****

‘cause the game’s as appealing as hard rock.

Besides, bad habits, as you know, die hard.

Still, do yourself a favor, will ya?

Be a man of your word, finally,

kidnap yourself and just leave

if you want to live long and happily.

Fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee,

but don't be as cocky as Muhammad Ali,

leave as a champion, while you're still on top.

Be cool as Bruce Lee.

High five, queen of the hive,

leave your pain alone in the sky,

or die and rest in peace

if a kamikaze is all you can be,

sacrifice yourself for the sake of hip-hop.

I think the only person that can save you from yourself is you.

Suppose I left you for good.

Can I really forget about you?

If only I could

dump devilishly evil love that's tough but feels so good,

so **** good that even bad.

A burning pleasure that hurts

with the sweetest pain I've ever felt.

And I'm ready to suffer for that.

So should you hurt me, do it gently,

as you still can do it,

I mean, are naturally good in bed, I bet.

Wait, man, not again!

Forget what I said.

That's not what I meant.

Sorry, my bad.

Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.

It's just a silly relapse.

It's not like I'm gonna sit on your face

or your lap

even in the context of rap.

I guess when you click with someone,

you can have this kind of fun.

That's okay.

But hey, let's not get carried away.

I'll keep doing my best to stay sober and sane till I collapse.

I’m so sorry for the innuendo.

Next time I'd better be more circumspect,

'cause it's probably inappropriate, like for a Christian, oral ***

Should I take you for a friend, though?

Or will you offer me your ballsy ****

And why is ******* a **** is considered to be the worst form of disrespect?

You know, I prefer to believe I could pull that off

and refer to you as a friend

even if you were a ******** ****** or a ******

Let's pretend that I'm your friend.

Would it be enough?

If not, disrespect me, then,

with your evil love.

Anyhoo, it wasn't my intention

to make you feel any tension or unwanted passion.

It has nothing to do with you, man.

Don't take it to heart.

I'm crossing the line again,

take it too far.

You can't be that bad.

Satanically evil devil.

Diabolically saint Satan

or at least a demon,

sizzling people on a frying pan.

You combine cockiness with humility,

quality with stupidity,

like life in the country,

so natural, organic, pure

but full of ****

It doesn't matter even if you say that

it feels so good to be bad.

I'm sure whatever you wish you could do

should be said.

And it's not your job to solve other people's problems or suit

the expectations of a stranger you've never met.

Not to mention that you don't have to pay too much attention

to every nonsense and stupid ****

that comes from my sick *** head.

I reckon, while looking like a bad boy on the surface, you're a good guy inside

or at least a good-looking bad guy.

Neither can I lie like that.

C'mon, of course, I don't really want to sit on your face.

In my defense, I lie to myself and justify my words by saying I'm just a good writer.

So I'd rather sit on the fence,

fooling around and trying to find balance with my ***

Yeah, I don't really want ya.

You realize I'm just ******* with you, doncha?

Oh dear, but I'm afraid you'll notice that I'm a bad liar.

What the **** did you expect, man?

Every your hater is your latent, negative fan,

accepting the rules of the game,

trying to change them later

except for one: the love of hatin’ you.

They dis you but have to respect you,

‘cause deep down they are afraid of you.

They know they can't harm you more than you do.

No one can hit you harder than life already did

at the harshest spitter’s speed.

And you love your haters too,

'cause you feed on your enemies' energy.

A feud with your foes you treat like hoes with irreparable flaws is the fiery fuel for you.

They made you too.

But when you're already dead,

they can't **** you.

And now all you do is breathe out words, wrapped around your feelings,

trapped in your middle finger

so they linger, ready to get out, and show the world,

prove again they can't be faux.

I'm sure they have been true before

and will stay real and raw forevermore

to slam yo’ foes with speedy rhymes,

hit ‘em with your spitting bars

about slaughtering ‘em with a chainsaw and the whole range of guns,

as long as you control your fear,

transform it into rage,

squeeze it in the fist,

and direct as a punch line to your foe's face on the stage.

You love them masochistic ******* hard,

like you've been loved by God,

blessed by his evil love,

so evil that it seized two people

and embodied itself in you.

How cool is that?

Not good enough?

What the hell were you thinking

when you wanted to become a rapper,

starting as a rising star of your future fans' local newspapers?

As if you don't know what's going on in the heads of your fans.

All they want is to be you, like you or with you, **** you.

But you don’t even give a **** do you?

Well, whad'ya know! I guess **** happens.

Sometimes you think you recognized someone

when, in fact, you took 'em for somebody else,

dissolved in the gray mass of unrealized rappers,

lost in the illusion of greatness

due to the brain mess and oblivious madness.

Even though, I ain't deny it,

I am a terrible liar, god awful at this.

Still, it was worth trying.

Now, go ahead, go nuts, disrespect me.

I deserve it, as the worst sin is cowardice

according to the master’s manuscript.

What choice do I have? I can't help it.

It's like a bad habit.

And you know they die hard,

because you get used to something that doesn't even exist.

So what?

Any habit is bad.

It's just a hospitable habitat

for a bunch of big fat neurons,

very large and hungry worms,

******** dopamine,

in some cases, also spitting useless rhymes

in your little, stupid head,

like you're a war veteran with PTSD

and a drug-addict, who's about to OD,

trained, highly qualified,

good for nothing but fights for his beliefs.

That's why there are no selfless good deeds.

Should you prove me wrong, I'll eat my hat.

Until then, in order to look more decent and less rude,

I'mma… keep lying

till it becomes true,

the dream of the reality reboot.

When I convincingly lie to myself,

I believe it, then in myself too.

I've got the power and always had.

I just need to figure out how to use it,

put dead words to living music.

Yes, words are virtual.

The feeling is real, animal, material,

hence spiritual.

While my mind screams, "Oh, hell no! I don't think so,"

my heart says,"Fuck yeah! I'm almost there."

Yeah, right, I know.

Again, I write like a *****

incapable of controlling the ****** energy,

trolling her own insatiable libido.

That's just how I feel, though.

Oh, Gee! **** this **** destructive love,

******* me over again,

demolishing everything on her way.

I can't feed her

or him, them.

I don't know anymore.

As if the absence of a name for a gender

can be compensated by a number.

In no way did I mean to be mean and delve into the devil dancing, dude.

I just like dancing.

And I don't wanna use my words as a weapon.

I'm not rapping.

Baby, I'm telling the truth!

I ******* love you.

I love ******* with you.

Too bad, this love is evil.

I feel like I fell in love

just for my heart to fall apart.

Besides, it sounds too good to be true

for an oxymoron,

a beautiful masochistic figure of speech for morons.

I'd better ditch this queening *****

'cause it seems that all I do is try to forget you.

But do I really have to?

Even if I do, I'm not sure I can get over you.

**** you don't give a **** though,

and still have no clue.

And I will never matter to you.

Well, all this beauty is for me, then, not for you.

If only you knew, my man,

how tired of you I am.

It's not that I want to bust a cap, rhyme, or a myth.

But how many women have you really been with?

I hate to admit that it must feel good to eat a forbidden fruit.

What if I ate this ******* apple?

Why an apple, by the way?

It could be a banana, for fuck's sake.

After all, first people were supposedly closer to the sun.

Their skin must have been black or crispy brown.

And they ate bananas for survival and fun.

Hey, don't you find a peeled Eve’s banana in her throat,

smooth like nirvana, more appealing than Adam's apple,

albeit covered with a beard of an old famous rapper, aka the goat?

Whatever, it doesn't matter.

The point is it's a metaphor

for liberation from the paradise prison for apes,

who painfully evolve

to find out how to become a free from human morality god.

But if you can't handle your sins,

maybe you don't deserve that.

Maybe you make a mistake when you think

that God is a perfect human being,

while, in fact, it's not human at all.

Besides, I am too responsible for adultery,

for I'm not only an animal, but also a self-aware adult.

And if you still blame your parents or God for who you are,

maybe you didn't grow up.

Should you not take responsibility for your life,

there's always someone to blame.

Who, if not you?

Why should anybody be anyway?

Life is a miracle, they say.

And the essence of a miracle is being inexplicable,

well, maybe only lyrically rhymed,

expressed as the feeling that can't

and doesn't need to be explained.

So why should you?

Why should I?

What I can do

is pretend

that I should understand

how to push through

and move on till it seems I can finally forget you

to change, evolve, create and grow,

'cause I can't take it anymore.

I gotta dig in my feet

till I start digging it,

throw you out of my system,

lest you become too real, way too persistent,

get control over the hideous, insidious monster,

hiding inside my aching soul,

get rid of the bad habit of diving into the gaping hole

of ferocious fears of love turning destructive, feral, and fierce

when life is atrociously real,

feel free to recover from the past,

buried in time at last,

leave the weird, love, solipsistic symbiosis behind,

say goodbye to the human neurosis of being alive,

realize that I should open my eyes,

wake up and smell the roses

in a terrifyingly lucid dream I live in,

in the elusive present moment,

find life balance, hormonal harmony,

learn to turn suffering into pleasure while surviving,

go through the metamorphosis

from the cocoon of verbose neurosis

to a beautiful butterfly,

the free poetry that can fly

into the unborn future where it can thrive and die.

And if I need to escape reality again,

I hope I still will be able to find the way.

Despite all the **** happening in this world,

all these wars, travesty of life,

lurid farce, insane asylum,

senseless grotesque circus,

the theater of the absurd,

where things are not what they're called,

please, Love, don't let me go!

Even though I keep saying no,

I know you won't let me go.

And I'll give it all to you

lest I be lost like a wretched wreck, sad sack of ****

and disappear in my own misery.

I hope that won't be necessary,

but to live without you is kinda scary.

So I guess I have no choice.

Born capricious, man must learn to die grateful.

You don't understand anything in this world.

That's why you try to explain it.

And you fail every time.

That's all right.

Laughter is a normal reaction to being overwhelmed with awe.

The thinking process is like ***

and the ****** is like laughter

that happens after

you discover for the kabillionth time

that you are just a *******

What a relief.

Again, Universe, thanks a lot for your support.

Now the pleasure is all mine.

When you look at yourself from afar

and laugh at your stupidity,

you free yourself from it,

release your ego,

and become a self-sufficient god,

who doesn't look for the meaning,

for he's already been found.

This world is magical, and you are magic and a magician.

To see it, just open your mind.

You must know by now,

as various fairy tales, like life and comics, show,

that while there's always a reason for evil,

the true power is love.

****** Fan*

Though, I don't wanna be attached to you

or infatuated about you,

being afraid to admit that I crave

but am scared of being touched by you,

as you also deliver top-notch romance in your lyrics.

It turns me on and turns into limerence,

the obsessive incessant necessity to be loved,

‘cause I lacked it as a child,

forsaken by God.

Perhaps I'm just being infantile,

while not too childish and cowardly to laugh at misery for real.

To laugh at the theater of the absurd from your soul,

you have to watch it, not play the role, after all.

I gotta get outta here,

forget this foolish nightmare,

pretending to be a sweet dream,

coming true for real,

from which I can't hide,

where my tearing and bleeding,

restless and curious mind

inside a decaying corpse,

oozes rapper’s bile,

loses time on rotten thoughts,

my ****** words versus yours,

empty, precious, mighty loud, diverse,

especially those that hurt the most.

It's just a preposterous verse

you can't stop reading,

artificial reality, imaginary multiverse

where I can feel real raw metaphors.

Nevertheless, it unfortunately deserves

to be called careless, embarrassing, and gross.

It drives me off the deep end course.

But it's also challenging, provocative, and bold,

though must be too controversial to be sold,

too deep, so deep that it’ll stay in me,

‘cause I'm writing my ******* bible

with the main character being the word god.

I have already written it, actually.

Although the Bible is free,

I prefer mine,

‘cause I'm done with reading, I write.

Besides, I don't like to read about others’ victimized, martyrized sacrifices

and catch various contagious interpretations

of other sick strangers' interpretations,

except maybe innocent potential sinner's associations.

I hope one day, I won't lie when I say,

"That's it. I'm done.

I don't read. I don't write.

I don't need this **** All right?

Unless I can push out a real word out of my mind."

**** what a ****** fan I am!

Man, we don't have that much in common.

I'm not even a sports fan,

wearing Eminem's Jordans or jersey and boxing shorts as pajamas.

Being a shorty, I didn't make it to professional swimmers.

No biggie, neither are you a pro in basketball.

You chose a different career.

And while you now want to make it disappear,

like hopefully one day will North Korea,

I don't have one.

Thank God, nor do I have children.

What for?

So there'd be someone to bury you, but before,

they'd have helped you grow up into something more

than you are,

as you are being continued?

But they say, everything I see

is the extension of me.

So why would you want more,

when the whole world is within you?

I mean, why would a reasonable human being even bother having children?

To teach them how to live?

Seriously?

In a world where you are lucky if you survive a brand new strain of flu?

How on earth are you supposed to do it,

if you need your entire life to grow up

and learn it on your own?

Or so they suffer like you did

but eventually be grateful to you,

because they reaped what you'd sown

and on your bad example, they learned to be happy either way?

Does anybody really need it?

For what? For a good plot of a dramatic play?

If not, then what's the reason?

It's gotta be.

Unless it happens arbitrarily.

Then we don't have to be chain links between our descendants and ancestors, do we?

I guess we do not.

However, they probably wouldn't approve.

They'd sound indignant about how dare we

in the rageful howl, "Oh, dear God!

Don't be a hero. Being alone is so scary."

Good thing, I don't care about that.

See, I don't need to be a parent, apparently.

Nothing to lose, everything to win.

If I ever make it to Michigan,

I'll probly just get lost amongst street artists and enlightened bums

to be saved by your alternative to MacDonald's,

which, of course, is not a real restaurant.

As I'm prone to dicking around,

my head in the sky,

for instance, taking pictures of dumpster squirrels,

fat like hamsters,

black and mean like ghetto gangsters,

fast like Detroit Tigers and Lions

who, thanks to you, beat the Yankees and Falcons.

Well, I can see that you're in love with your city.

So as a patriot of Detroit you must prefer Michigan motors, such as Dodge or Ford,

provided, of course, that it's not four-door

to be worthy of the immense, impressive car collection that hardly anyone can afford,

except the best rap nerd,

who represents the Olympus of successful rap legends,

according to his stans,

and still prefers Ford

to the most expensive Mercedes-Benz,

even though this brand’s vehicle has been in his ownership before.

And here comes the harsh truth.

I'm almost sure I'm number two

because I obviously come after you,

let alone there's always someone

claiming to be your number one fan.

Besides, I don't even listen to your old songs anymore,

even the iconic “Stan”,

because first of all, I don't like them all.

Secondly, I'm too lazy to relisten to the songs I've already heard before,

when I'm busy with my own thoughts or get bored,

especially that I wasn't a ******** fan of an earlier version of you,

when you were yet immature.

You know, since your life is Truman Show,

and all your **** is personal,

the recent material shows a clearer picture of the current, real you.

So why should I care for your earlier songs or rewatch your previous interviews

if they are now old news?

To laugh at a funny bunny, ghost from the past,

like when you were the Tonight Show host's, Briefcase Joe's guest?

I enjoyed it once, yes.

Would I watch it again?

No, but thanks.

If only briefly, barely, very rarely.

I don't wanna OD.

It wouldn't hurt to watch it one last time, though, I guess.

I actually haven't even listened to all your songs.

Unfortunately, I don't have enough time,

‘cause there are too many of them, and I am one. Also,

I've bought only one of your disks,

not even vinyl

with a special edition cassette in addition

or a souvenir from your official store with your handwritten initials,

though it's mp3.

As for the rest, I downloaded them for free.

So no use of me.

I hope it won't make you poor, my dear.

Neither do I have my basement covered in your posters.

And I have never been to any of your concerts

to prove that I've been your superfan since day one.

Cinderella man, sorry for the worst form of disrespect

that an artist can expect from a fan,

for being broke enough to steal from you.

Of course, it's not an excuse.

If any consolation, at least I'm honest with you.

The truth is I became your stan in 2012

after I'd stumbled upon your album Recovery,

which was released in 2010.

Now I'm the age that you were back then.

But my fanaticism hardly would have happened,

hadn't I smoked **** and started writing again,

which proves that it's best not to mix drugs.

I even tasted your language,

which I liked so much

that my brain turned into a bilingual sandwich.

And then, twelve years later, the same **** happened again.

Relapse.

Well, you know how it goes, man.

I've been writing this thing since then.

I guess it's a middle age crisis.

So I'm digging a soul-searching hole in my brain

to find out what my life is.

It turns out, what draw me to you

was the combination of poetry and drugs,

hot mess of thoughts,

served with a hot psychedelic sauce,

explosive mixture that sooner or later

would inevitably detonate, ‘cause it wants to be exposed.

Double dope doping causes extreme acceleration of dopamine levels.

But I tell you what,

when your brain melts, seethes, and starts dripping out of your ringing ears due to parallel processing flows, it *****

I mean, when it produces more dopamine than you really need,

it tricks you into feeling even more happy than you already are but unaware of it

and burns you, turns you into an obsessive drug-addict,

who gets what he deserves.

You know it because you are just like me,

though not quite me.

And rap is your drug aside of being your therapy,

a side effect and consequence of being a rap king,

your reward and punishment, blessing and curse

so you could decompose a **** dung of thoughts in your head for something beautiful to compose,

like a crimson thorny rose

that has already risen to unbelievable heights in this verse

for no apparent reason besides arousing feelings that unexpectedly arose.

Well, the whole **** world is manure,

and the most beautiful flower is you.

I mean, me.

And this is my ****

This is just the way I am.

No offense, no grudge.

I am not whatever you say I am.

You are.

So don't judge

not to be judged.

The thing is everybody's nothing

until they run into something to believe in.

I'm only human,

even worse, a weak woman.

But, you know what?

I believe, like you and me,

even Jesus was just a human being.

Yet, look what he’s become.

Story of your life, huh?

Sorry I haven't been with you since day one,

and got to know you better after you’d almost died

and been reborn.

Has the near-death experience made you appreciate the second chance you'd been given

to realize that every day is the first day of the rest of your life?

Then again hit the big echo

as the death of your alter ego.

But I'm glad that it happened

while you're still alive,

unlike some other legends that were less lucky,

as I discovered them post-mortem.

I'm sure your fandom will continue growing as well, even without me.

Don't worry, I won't bother you with asking for your photo or autograph if I ever meet you.

Although I won't put your tattoo,

devil's mark, stan-stamp art on my body

or your picture on my wall,

there's always a place for you

in my heart and my soul.

As I am honored to be your idle admirer,

you're honored to take your place in my rap bible as my idol.

Of course, it's not like an iconic collab with Dido.

But it’d be cool if you did check this out before you really died, though.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,

if you love someone, you should be able to let them go.

Don't worry. One day I will be your ex-fan

and (how do I put this? Ahem!)

you will be a fan of your own fan,

yeah, big time,

my number one fan,

the only one,

even though I don't belong with veteran rappers,

vetted in relentless battles.

Meanwhile, I'll procrastinate, manifest, and meditate,

unable to end this ******* poem

or rather a rap novel

till I reach my aim,

my fantastic goal,

even if it's too big for a small girl like me.

After all, the fact that I own a smartphone only to write all day long

has been already frowned upon.

I've even been warned and given a word

that, if I weren't stealth enough and were dumb enough to be caught

with the phone in hand again, next time,

it'd be taken by force without a warrant and smashed against the wall

for stealing my time.

Although I'm simply playing with words,

I know this kind of games can be dangerous.

I wouldn't exaggerate and imagine

that life was comic, if it weren't tragic,

unless you can prove that it's not true.

Well, I guess that is impossible to do.

It's not that I don't realize that my words are fraught with consequences.

Even so, I almost feel like nothing can hurt me now, and I'm gon’ live forever.

It sounds like sheer nonsense, nonetheless I do,

because at the most you will read this verse

when it’s perfect, or when you’re ready, I assume,

which will happen maybe…

uh, yeah, most definitely never,

or at least, you won't read all this any time soon

and won't say anything whatsoever.

So I'll keep playing my silent game either way,

pondering about pointless stuff to forever elaborate

on some stupid **** simultaneously,

making it look poignant and clever,

'cause even though I might be not good at, let's say, baking cakes or pies,

I do have a black belt in piling up rhymes.

In case you, however, deign to teach me some manners and whoop my ***

spank me with your hard and heavy raps,

like I'm your bad girl, and you're my dad,

do it fast, if you must,

'cause my level by now is supposed to be advanced.

So good luck with that,

break a leg.

Oh, what the heck,

break the whole fuckin' neck.

Make me repent the sins of my pen

that inks more now about the future

than I think about the past.

Give me your masterpiece, please.

Show me your master class.

Okay, okay, I give up.

I kid, I kid, don't get up, kiddo.

Calm down.

It's not like I know aikido.

But it sounds good, ain't it?

Feels good too, *********

‘cause this kinda martial art matters,

especially when you know what to do with all this talent.

It should have become a cakewalk at some point, anyways.

Otherwise, what's the point, though, right?

I gotta raise the bar, writing catchphrases,

fire a metaphorical gun, shooting punch lines in your face

right between the eyes

blow your brains out,

scatter ‘em all over the place

and expand your mind,

entering outer space.

Now feel the silence in the gaps

between thoughts,

where you meet god,

read between the lines,

tune into the magic Shut-up land

you need to be eventually

without raps and rhymes.

Everyone does.

Find your blissful peace there

for no more war

with yourself, please.

RIP so I could reap what I sow.

Master peace to become a true masterpiece.

And don't even try to rise from the dead, bruh, like eva.

You're no more of a phoenix, than I'm an ornithologist, just so you know.

Yeah, no, I'm not,

but I'm pretty sure, there is no such thing as a self-combustible bird,

dying on the pyre

of satanically hot satire.

You're not gonna arise from the ashes.

That's it.

So stop burning yourself in the fire of your own ****

Burn in mine for a change.

Who knows? You may even like it.

After all, it was your idea to trade shoes

and look at life through each other’s eyes

to find out what we can see inside each other's minds,

sharing the illusion of feeling each other's pain,

transforming it into love,

a dark evil night into a bright sunny day.

Although, it actually sounds a bit too dashing and smug,

because, like a "normal person",

I've written the whole poem behind your back,

sharing opinions with others rather than

having my life at stake

risking insulting you face to face,

which, I hate to break it to you,

I'm never gonna do.

Boy, that would be a big mistake to make,

like ordering a beefsteak instead of a birthday cake.

Who would have thought I could create something for you that's hard to take?

What can I say?

Never say never.

I’d love to make people laugh

until they cry at the same time,

breaking their stereotypes.

Can't help it.

It is what it is.

I like to write about funny, enlightening things.

And it is funny when you are here now.

Then just like that,

**** you're gone.

A divine supernova bursts stark into a black-hole devil.

This Verse Is Alive

This ****** verse grows like a red, hot rose

from a stinky dark mess that smells mighty bad, so gross.

Thorny, aggressive, *****

Take a look. It's already bloomed.

One touch, It will sting your skin and nerves

as if it's poisonous.

As if the venom can spread to your brain,

while the sweet aroma crawls through your nose.

You inhale, you inspire.

Goat, you wanna devour the whole ******* flower,

‘cause it gives you the illusion of power.

You stand beside it, staring,

like a hungry cat at a sparrow,

hearing your soul sing and flood,

you think that you see yourself sink in the sea of blood.

In fact, you merely bleed into spring muddy streams and puddles.

Playing my heartstrings, you scream and squeeze the crimson rose even harder

and want some more than your usual dose,

‘cause it's outrageously beautiful and shamelessly pure,

as you can feel your blood dripping from its thorns.

Don't be so cruel,

fill me up with some more fuel.

You will be my first, I will be your last

to come from intellectual lust.

What more do you need?

You’ve had your chance to be a husband twice,

an insanely loving but resentful, extremely spicy spouse,

though, only for one woman.

And then you ****** it up. You blew it.

Man, sorry if it sounds personal,

but being a good father and a bad husband at the same time

is kinda controversial, if not impossible.

On the other hand,

marriage is a dual wholeness, paradoxical collab

of two lab rats, members of the nuptial club

for two idiots in love, engaged in the life event,

promising, at first, to consist of good stuff

for two participants, capable of turning it into a matrimonial war

of two morons, equally bad,

proving each other wrong,

hoping for a miracle,

when a made-up problem

somehow will solve itself tomorrow.

Why bother resolving issues with your ex anyway?

What for, though?

For one last goodbye ***

I guess, it's okay.

Or so you could still be friends?

Or maybe to get together again and see what will happen next,

as if it hasn't happened yet?

Oh, but unfortunately, it already has.

Should we pretend it hasn't and forget?

Another reason might be to forgive 'em and free yourself from pain.

It would be nice if such miracles could take place in life for real,

like in some kind of fairy tale,

where after the end of the world,

a new one is possible.

***** it. Let's just do it,

push each other's buttons,

strip each other to the bones,

blow our minds, impress,

undress to the very souls,

and turn our bodies into fluid

to unite in one immense, mercilessly immersive flow.

It's chaotic, but makes sense.

After all, it's inevitable, I know

and always knew it.

Do you feel my words make you mine?

Do you wanna know why?

That's because this verse is alive.

It eats you all and frees your mind.

In this moment is your entire life for you to sublime

and see your soul's growth.

There's a place for everyone

on the planet Earth

except for those who are being eaten.

So beat it not to be beaten,

if you are a little kitten.

The show must go on.

So be it.

One life has to end for the other one to be continued.

Or stay, 'cause I want you to feel me in ya

the way I think I see god in ya

and wanna feel you IN me.

The encounter with a predator makes you feel alive.

If you are lucky not to be dissolved in its gut,

you will be forever grateful for the reason why

you now remember it as meeting God.

Life is already rough enough.

Be gentler to keep the balance.

Enlarging the range of senses,

observe yourself through the microscope lens from above,

as if the beast is at a distance.

Keep holding lion's jaws wide open,

'cause your power is where your pain is.

Fight the fear with a fiery mane.

Break it if you can't take it, but stay.

Stay strong.

If it helps to find new meanings of old words,

break the word order to convince yourself that the world is yours

till the last smithereens of all atoms.

Dance till the end of your days,

then fly to the light, like a weightless white dove,

enlightened by the power of love.

Why is that the closer to your death you are,

the calmer you become, huh?

How come your soul doesn't burn in agony and shout?

While you choose what to eat,

nature digests us all into ****

to keep the balance in its account,

harmony in and out.

Or you'd rather it chews you and spits you out,

‘cause you are a bit too bitter for a candy bar,

wrapped in too sweet a beet

that tastes like Jesus Christ’s feet so far?

Like you and I, this shady verse constantly changes and grows,

expands like the universe,

as if it wants to consume the whole world,

including me,

and destroy the cosmos

where it came from,

drowning in self, unfolds

to reveal its true form.

Inexorable entropy relentlessly dissolves

in nonsensical chaos

of nauseous word *****

explosive, lyric, verbal diarrhea,

disintegrating into syllables,

letters, stream of consciousness,

being caught by a flight of the thought of the flight of a thought,

hilarious convulsions of ridiculous subconscious mind flow.

It grows when I grow,

literally becoming a virtual version of me.

Can I control it, if I can't outgrow it, though?

When it stops, it will eventually die.

Should one get too big,

there may be no place for ‘em left,

like for a neuron that got too heavy and fat

and had to fall off under the gravity of other thoughts

and die from boredom,

this way, ripping a band-aid off the soul at the same time,

an old, wise worm,

tired of looking for a reason in a rhyme,

illusive lightning-like truth at the bottom of the bottle,

that ain't there,

‘cause he's blind to see happiness in life.

Eat the world.

Digest it along with regrets.

Let it through.

Let it go.

Goodbye.

So if you read this,

it probably seems that

Schrödinger's cat is trapped in your head,

neither alive nor dead.

Although it's actually highly unlikely,

the fact that I might still be writing it

is, frankly speaking, quite frightening.

But also, in the process of growing, I'm enjoying my poem,

being obsessed with the idea of the illusion that I'm obsessed with the image of you,

the fantasy that embodies itself in the form of this verse in the virtual world,

searching for perfection in the night sky, lit by dead stars, reaching for the moon,

in time, to leave the space where I am now for the real one, and then one more.

This may actually become a masterpiece, after the death of the author.

Clearly, she's an addict and an idiot or a genius,

depending on the angle from which you see this bunch of words and feelings,

simple and mysterious.

But at the same time, it's possibly

one of the most narcissistic verses,

written by a presumably the most modest person,

that has ever existed in this world

and will stay in the history

as the distinctive but illusive evidence,

based on evasive traces,

a pale shadow,

the echo of the stars long gone.

It's a constant self-improvement work in progress,

tiresome sometimes, yes,

but a very interesting working process

I'm engrossed in.

Sophie’s Choice

Whatever it is, it's for you to decide.

It's your choice, of course.

Is it, though?

For some reason, it always seems to be Sophie's choice.

So I guess it is what it is.

(By the way, it really is a masterpiece

already, as it is,

like life,

one long aphorism.)

But why on earth does it always have to be like this?

I don't know.

It isn't easy, is it?

It's easier to be decapitated by a mind-breaking wizard

than to choose between two ideally evil ideas or thoughts.

As if I'm a little girl,

born during a war,

and while hiding from the Soviet Union among the Vietcong,

killed by the American bomb.

Or should I pick a side

find a lesser evil? Why?

Not to die today? Escape endless wars

between heaven and earth?

Why two evils?

Do you have to always be

between the devil and the deep blue sea?

Why not funny and spiritual?

‘Cause I'd rather not pick either of two evils.

On the other hand, when I can't choose between two good things,

I tend to take both,

like two ***** in one hole.

**** sure happens,

even when you mean well

and try to be good

or at least pretend.

Well, what you know?

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Hell, even cold but golden Alaska was once sold for a *** of gold.

What a funny way for fund-raising to build oligarchs’ mansions.

I guess, you never know where you lose and find.

You may appear in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And you can't do anything about it at first.

But then… Bam!

The bomb drops,

and you're gone. You die.

On the bright side, you are now free,

put out of your misery,

as if killed out of mercy.

So thank you, Universe, merci.

See? Your freedom of choice is in your attitude,

and you can always find something to be grateful for, of course.

To get enlightened, you have to go through darkness, after all.

Yeah, I know it hurts.

There is no good or bad,

only happy and miserable.

Don't make it worse.

Think about it.

Who do you think you are,

and where do you think you go,

while you grow, evolve, improve your soul?

Apparently, you move from a bad place to a better one.

That's probably why after you finally, really die,

as a reward for your pain,

you naturally get into a better world,

where you meet its creator, god,

or merely a different you.

So you have a choice,

to stay where you are

or be somebody else, free to choose

and believe that what he has created is yours,

and you got nothing to lose,

because you are already gone.

I wonder why I am afraid to die,

as if I'm in love with life

despite what it did to me,

materialized my spiritual mind.

To be or not to be?

The eternal question with no universal answer.

Answers can't fill eternity.

The Word Owns You

Anyhow, it's almost dead already, too bad, too old,

too big, too bold,

still straightforward, piercing, and bitter

like one **** with two *****

that ****** you off

and makes you wanna **** it so hard

that it could finally die and go off.

Yeah, it's so sick.

I gotta put it out of its misery with a rusty shovel,

**** it out of mercy at some point.

I mean, no one can heal something so ill.

And what can't be healed,

has to be killed.

I hope you feel me, silly,

understand what I wrote.

It's not that difficult and obscure,

really,

still alive, while yet not cured.

Are you following my thought?

If you're not sure,

I assure you, you do.

You're just unsure if it's the right direction for you.

Well, what do I know? I'm not you.

I only look at you.

Don't take my art too literally.

You can break my heart if you want.

I don't care,

'cause it's pretty much virtual,

supposed to be in my chest,

but not there.

Don't get me wrong.

It's not a big fat flattering love letter, you know.

I'm merely studying you under the microscope,

like a calm, unbiased, meticulous scientist,

doing research in silence,

slicing and dicing a frog.

And the more he analyzes this fandom madness,

the more stuck in the shady mania and ****** up he becomes,

anatomizing your black soul's dark guardian angel

you have such a desperate craving for.

He is capable of quenching your thirst

for the only language a dark angel knows,

which is a wild evil love.

Wait. Where is your light guardian angel, bro?

Have only one?

Love and evil.

God and the devil, combined.

He's behind you all the way

in the hall of fame on the wall of shame.

Well, I suppose, two heads are better than one

because you can perform an experiment on one of them.

Stop being a hostage of your own role.

You're on your own from now on,

not lonely, alone only, though.

You were a good, slim fellow.

But now you've become even better.

Keep using your flaws,

rotten pieces of the mind of your future corpse

to hone your skills and master your soul.

And when you're deeply alone and unknown,

you'll gain your total freedom.

I'm sure you've already started to write a song about it,

(have you, really? Can I hear it?)

and, of course, your new album will be double platinum

‘cause you are the king.

Totally, totally. I agree.

I mean, the most beautiful drama queen.

To be actually free,

you must just adjust and really need to see

through the prism of your soul

that your self-important beloved self-torture

you are so deeply engrossed in,

thinking it's motivating,

yet instead, it's instigating,

self-indulgent suffering rapture,

absorbing you, is worthless.

Don't feed yourself to your pain.

It will obliterate your brain,

devastate your heart and burn you in its flame.

You're more significant than this.

The contents of your shape are more important than the context of the game.

You became too big for your frame

and keep growing, because you can.

I didn't suffer too much, just enough to be what I am.

You are not broken completely, just enough to be what you are,

to transform the weakness of man

into the power of god.

And I wanna evolve with you,

because I’m in love with you.

For this, I zoom in, dive deep into me

to see how much you mean to me.

But the process of healing is painful.

What you gonna do?

You need pain to appreciate love,

fear of death to cherish life

so you can feel when it correlates

with the nature's grace in many ways

and shapes your soul, your gestalt.

Pain is designed to draw attention to itself

and make you brave enough to change,

dive deeper into the nature,

discover life again as an adventure.

I love to see my body change and my consciousness grow.

I love life because it's temporary.

It's my favorite show.

There's not much to say. You've been through a lot.

We've all been. So what?

And we all still have this hurt, scared, sullen, depressed, enraged, silent teenager deep inside

we want to protect by creating a strong dark guardian angel

for our inner child to grow up.

So don't act like your sorrow is wider than the universe.

You're not the only one of your kind.

You know, it's not that entertaining

to see the vivid pictures you paint with your pain and

listen to your heart-breaking complainings.

As if your cathartic torments and problems are worth my emotional resources.

Like I didn't suffer from my own PTSD, unexpected traumas,

emotional scars, bruises, unwanted dramas,

devastating losses,

or wait for the right response

as a sufficient answer from the wrong person.

So you see, your pain would be superfluous.

Unlike all miserable people,

I don't want to be miserable like you.

But I do want you to be happy,

like I am right now,

even though I'm not good enough

in finding the right words to show you how.

I mean, you think you own the word,

when, in fact, the word owns you.

You don't come up with words,

they come up to you,

get into your mouth in the form of a ****

and come into your brain

with mind-blowing-ceilings ideas,

breaking your head’s virginal membrane.

It ********** so deep that it makes you addicted to this game.

It comes into you

till it engulfs you on the inside

with your inner hungry for pleasure, greedy child

and becomes you.

Out of your subconscious mind,

words come to you, swift and alive.

You put them down to die.

I think, most of the time,

you feel like a ****

coming with words through your mouth,

embodying your power of spirit

till it becomes licorice-like sweet and thick,

and you actually start to feel it.

You play this game again and again

in the point of singularity inside the circle of limited abilities

but with the point of view

of an intentionally infinite creative potential

to elaborate on undeliberate liberation,

ready to unfold into a universe

and become broad-minded too.

But how can I know my potential if I can't reach the unreachable thresholds

and keep bouncing off the shaking ceiling back to the floor

of the house with illusive walls and invisible doors,

balancing between two extremes

inside the virtual system of dualism,

knit with delicate threads of dreams.

Feelings are precious because of being captivating and transient.

This is how this world works.

You have been owing yourself survival since birth.

Even in your dreams, you keep solving problems,

not noticing that it's nonsense

that can be interpreted as the repentance of your guilty conscience,

while your destiny seems to consist of the sequence of coincidences,

arising more controversy and cognitive dissonance.

It's not that bad, considering you look at it from a distance.

That's why I prefer practice to theory,

the feeling to words,

which are the consequence that follows the cause.

A described feeling dies in words.

They become its tombstone.

In dead words, for yourself in the future,

you describe the condition you feel as a god,

who chose love,

in the present moment to remember it by,

‘cause you are afraid to forget it as a human being,

capable of being defeated by fear.

So I guess, it's best not to open the box

you won't be able to close

and say goodbye,

unless you use words as a means

to achieve certain goals,

such as creating a universe,

where after art chaos has systematized

with the feeling embodied,

creative energy has formed,

dark matter has become tactile,

it's bound to realize itself and die,

then again to be born

with no end, God knows why.

Can you get out of the world of words by means of words,

through which you try to understand something that can't be understood?

No, YodaBuddha, but you could use ‘em as the beginner’s course.

Then shoot for the moon and go on.

Yeah, I coulda, to have something to move on from.

But when your viewpoint is perceived as a holler in a hollow,

a shout out of the empty void into nowhere,

that can be replaced with a song,

someone's mightless anger will always try to shut it up, break it, causing pain,

that's supposed to help you stop feeding your anxiety nonsense.

Instead, it makes inner voices louder, creating monsters.

They give you power and become too big and strong.

When you use wrong tools,

play the wrong instrument,

you lose your favorite game.

Reality interpretation through the symbol manipulation means

getting distracted by the process of expressing yourself,

while hunting your aim.

You don't let the creative energy go through,

misunderstand.

Missing a lot of things,

you miss the point, don't feel

your full potential.

Then you manifest, reflect

the interpreted reality back

to the universe.

It brings your manifestation to life and back to you,

still unfulfilled.

Why don't you reflect it directly

without being its witness?

Stop drawing.

You are the painting,

a masterpiece, even.

You are already in.

Just see

Well, apparently, life is not only a paradise

but also a hell sometimes.

Still, it's not just black and white,

you know.

Between them is a rainbow.

In search of the magic formula,

you try to describe the state of your consciousness with words

in the hope of keeping it timeless.

You cling to them as to juts,

keep climbing the mountain

or resist the volcanic flow of emotional energy

just to find a new painful extreme

and justify the way you follow your dream,

trying to overcome the feeling by means of words,

channeling it to the desired course

of training your willpower.

Don't worry, just spit it.

Nourish and bring up your power of spirit.

Grow up and become a god

who can help himself and inspire others.

Good luck and take care,

But hey, remember, scared little fellow,

don't miss the rainbow,

hiding from the rain under the umbrella.

**** happens.

Let it go, just go with the flow.

But steer the ship where you need to go.

Life smacks and *****

You snap and grow.

Should you hit rock bottom,

push off and break through the ceiling.

Keep pushing the limits

till you rocket through the roof of the Empire State Building,

where now only sky's the limit

in the endless space of your heavy mind,

filled with heavenly, godly light,

‘cause to **** the whole universe,

you need, for starters, to put your **** through the ceiling.

I know you like this feeling

of being godlike dynamite.

You've really got the power when you hold a mic.

On the other hand, as long as there's a deeper floor,

you're all right.

Never give in, toy soldier, fighting monsters.

Keep rapping, cracking nuts and silly jokes.

Ah, God, have mercy, not again.

"Somebody, help me!

I'm drowning in my ****

Why don't you write a song that pulls you out of it

instead of drinking it in, lapping, enwrapping it with a colorful covering

as if you're some kind of saint martyr?

Oh, yeah, I forgot. You already did.

So what?

What makes you stop?

Don't be too melodramatic.

You're not a lonely Captain Obvious

on a sinking ship.

You're a switchman for a locomotive,

not a lost cause.

Please, don't say that.

I'm sure it's not that bad.

At least it's better than it was

if you don't concentrate on what you've lost,

'cause there is always pros and cons,

which is characteristic of controversial, dualistic worlds.

You can walk on water after all, when the time comes

and see the reflection of the mightiest of all gods.

Still have doubts?

Open your eyes and your mind.

Don't worry, you're on the right track.

Take my hand and leave your fear behind.

Don't listen to the ice crack.

No need to be afraid, come on.

I'm with you. Don't look back.

Morfreeda

There are no mistakes or coincidences in your serendipitous destiny,

nor one rhyme or reason, or justice for all.

Even poetical.

It's just this one sole moment we're kept in,

like in prison for the soul.

So the question is not, to be or not to be,

but can I or am I compelled by the belief that it's impossible?

It just happened to be this way

so that now it can only be called fate.

Enjoy the path that you chose.

Have a nice ride along the road

to the timeless nowhere and nevermore.

Suffice to say that it's a beautiful and terrible world

where we can't tame a feeling by describing it,

not even with sophisticated phrases.

We only follow it, always behind

like a famished wolf, chasing its prey,

softly, with an untiresome determination,

stepping on its traces,

left here with prayers

in deafening silence to the higher self

who's free from ambiguity and hypocrisy,

'cause it's content, self-sufficient, wordless, selfless.

It always knows better what to do

so you could again experience déjàh vu.

If your mind resembles mine,

you must know what I'm talking about.

The divine power I feel is the source of

my undying force of vicious words

and a spark that can start a revolution fire

in the hearts of a passionate throng,

inspired by just one strong song,

capable of dethroning tyrants

and destroying empires.

This Che-Guevara-spirited power feels like you can bend space and time,

starting with yourself, change the world.

And for this, I use you as an instrument or a tool

to love myself by means of you.

I've climbed up even higher than you.

And now I'm not just enlightened.

I'm burned through,

becoming a distant star,

so far and high

that it hides in the sky

and stays invisible to your eye,

the eye which is not actually on Earth,

‘cause you are a black hole in the centre of the universe.

Well, what can I say?

I have been using you.

I did need it. So I did it.

Not to humiliate you, but to annihilate you,

I made you a part of my immortal, immaterial, nonexistent speculative art,

the deceiving art of a self-believing word god

in the body of a biological robot,

programmed to behave like a rap-bot.

Good thing if you're also a coder

aside from being merely a human being,

for if you become old and ugly,

then you have to learn how to appreciate the beauty inside you,

else you're either a lame coder

or you go further, climb your Everest,

the staircase,

where every step is a verse,

do not give up,

see the feeling of a psy-whore,

slowly evolving psyborg,

operating in God Mode,

keep trying to crack God's code.

In this case, you might switch to become a god.

Otherwise, what's the point, though?

So use your brain as a processor

to get access to the database of your soul.

Yeah, good thinking. Why not?

Do I have time?

Tick-tock, overclock your brain

till you reach the point where you don't,

as you go so fast that you get out of the illusion.

And now there is no time,

and the eternity is you.

Sure, it may sound insane, messy, and depressing,

but also interesting and impressive,

'cause when I start writing,

it seems like I stop living and start dying,

putting my heart and soul into words,

which is, in fact, a destructive sin,

as if the virus of life died in me.

The thing is, when I write,

I don't have time for a normal life.

It's a pity I don't have the vaccine against the disease called obscene poetry.

Therefore, I can't get rid of my poetical mortido,

doomed to be in love with searching for more freedom,

asking endless questions,

pondering about endless answers.

I guess I never really cared for taking them seriously, did I?

It makes me think I have enough power of spirit

in the fragile flesh to admit that

I don't live but gradually die

and that I'm worthy of the brave and honorable name Morfreeda.

You know what I'm saying, dawg?

If you don't get it, then I wonder

whether I'm a bad writer

or you're a bad reader.

Regardless of the author’s character,

once you get to know her,

I think she's actually kinda sorta nice,

quite nice, yeah,

(right, wait what? Nice?

You call that nice?

Morfreeda?

Shh… shut up! Are you insane?

Jesus ******* Christ!

Don't say this name in vain.)

as long as she doesn't disturb others,

duh,

describing her thoughts,

when she's out of sorts,

‘cause thoughts being spoken are a lie

despite the theoretical ability to be materialized.

You don't get them if you don't feel them to survive.

And even if you do,

it is still not quite true

as it just seems I understand you.

What would you do if an impudent fool

with the confidence of a bull came up to you

and acted like an uncouth animal?

Play hide-and-seek or peekaboo?

How would you make this pickle laughable?

I'd try to avoid making eye contact and the following dialogue.

"Leave me alone, illiterate idiot."

"What if I don't? What you gonna do about it, boo?

"Get away from me, please.

M… ************ don't touch me, I'm serious!"

"You wanna hook up?"

"What? No, thanks. I'd rather not."

"No *** Why not?

Why so hostile and furious?

Aren't you at least a bit curious?"

"I am, but curiosity killed a cat.

So it's still alive but potentially dead."

"Well, **** with that **** cat.

You're not that good a philosopher,

just a unnecessary poet."

Here is how, after flying around high in the space sky,

I'm falling down to the ground

and even lower, deeper and darker

straight towards the hell underground.

So how come I fell and felt like I'm in hell, dead,

but turned out to be in paradise, more than alive instead?

And now the immanent god Jahsdoit is I

with the consciousness level sky-fucking-rocketing,

sitting on the rainbow cloud of love

spitting down from above.

You get it, right? You become immortal too,

sharing your growing soul with your aspiring admirer

through your inspiring art that will never expire.

It becomes a part of us,

united by one everlasting love that turns us into gods.

Why not?

With you, I'm free and wild,

can say whatever I want, smile,

and be not afraid or shy

to look like a child,

be whatever I wanna be,

go as far as I can,

do whatever it takes,

maybe even trip abroad,

wander around the world,

and see as far as it's possible for a god.

But I accept the fact that I'm not here forevermore,

at the same time,

can't comprehend that I'll disappear completely.

I guess my ego just needs to think so,

hopefully, to complete me,

but I'm afraid, for it to live, it needs to eat me

to become whole,

get the complete self-sufficiency of an egocentric god.

Sounds familiar?

Thought so.

You are a hell of an artist.

And I love this about you.

While slowly dying,

you entertain and enjoy yourself by making up your plot,

writing.

Although I know I've created the character of you

in the image of an attentive god in my mind,

while in reality he's oblivious, you don't care, and I talk to myself about me,

created in the image of my soul, the sense,

materialized in the body,

learning to realize itself in its life

(for what?),

considering it's hard and time-and-energy-consuming

for a tiny, puny, stupid woman,

I am being absorbed by a mind-boggling thought

and can be anything from a crushed roach

to a convincingly invincible, imperishable, really superhuman god.

**** that's some spiritual, awakening, dopest **** Enjoy it.

Never hesitate, though, to tell me I make a mistake, word slave,

so that I wouldn't feel all too high and mighty.

But don't underestimate me. Okay?

Kindly bite me.

Even if I think it's worth being called high-quality literature,

written by a highly spiritual creature,

every time I say I'm a god,

keep convincing me that I'm not.

Humiliate and humble me with your immodest art,

try to bring me back to my rut,

because I'm nobody, as a matter of fact.

Even if I am brilliant,

treat me accordingly,

but don't you ******* ever tell me I'm one in a million.

I don't wanna hear it.

Let me silently rot in my quiet, tranquil, transcendent oblivion.

See, every time I open my mouth

some quite stupid **** may come out.

So don't be shy to shut me up.

I obvi can't hold a candle to you, duh.

But I'm tired of holding it for you.

And I'm not sure if I can handle the mental state of my “brilliant brain”

with the willpower melting and getting soft like cotton wool.

I will never be good enough,

because even though I may feel I deserve to hold

all the platinum and gold of the whole world,

I'm afraid I would trade it for your love.

Yeah, I may sound too controversial.

Well, I guess, still waters run deep,

and the king of controversy

is doomed to deal with fans like me.

You know that people can be deep like oceans

so we could drown in each other, discovering ourselves through our dope emotions,

hearing voices from the depth of our cosmic consciousness,

reflecting as the starlight off water of a mirror-like sea.

Universal Love

As I’ve already told ya,

I want you to be happy.

I kid you not.

Even though your brain wasn't designed for happiness,

being busy surviving in God Mode,

looking for solutions,

making up problems, if all have been found,

chasing pleasurable, satisfying happiness,

cozy, warm, and kind,

saving you from death and pain.

Keep pushing Sisyphus’s stone.

That's all right.

Just tune into a new attitude to the way of your particular wave.

We’ll go together through your highs and lows.

Although we all are one in this world, but alone in our lives,

you don't have to be alone this time.

You don't have to be strong all the time

and act as if the whole world is on your shoulders.

I'll be with you till the day I die,

or you die.

I stand behind you as though behind the brick wall.

I am your shadow, you are my hero.

Till death do us part,

I will be by your side

with your music in my heart.

But listen, life is more than just a struggle or a competition

with achieving endless goals,

overcoming challenges and troubles,

solving puzzling problems,

accomplishing impossible missions,

be it outstanding, award-winning songs,

best-selling, platinum albums, books, or movies for your stans.

It could be a journey or a lesson,

as long as you remember it.

So start to count your ******* blessings, man.

Your dream aim is not as important as the way to it.

It's important to love the way as if the dream already came true, ain't it?

Live in it. There's no need to explain it

or wait for anybody’s permission.

To love yourself, you don't need reassuring public recognition.

As for me, I'd rather roll dice with death for my own dreams

than be a captive of other people's ambitions.

Love distracts from surmounting new highs,

'cause it makes you high as it is.

Do me a favor. Live a little

without impressing people, please.

Instead of wasting your time on describing the process of searching for the reason of your misery,

trying to fix it unsuccessfully,

reveling in the power of existentialism,

why not actually be happy

despite everything that convinces you to the contrary?

Relax, reveal what you feel directly, and deal with it in front of the mirror face to face with your soul, if you will.

Would it **** ya to smile once in a while?

Or would it turn you into a slime?

I'm sure you can do it, when nobody's looking at you.

Just let go of your paranoid paradigm.

Any time now, any smile goes,

even if it's tragicomically crooked and spooky,

like a Fortune Teller Cookie.

Life's not a contest in who suffers more

or whose **** is the biggest.

**** a lemon, dude,

enjoy and feast on your shitburger with gratitude,

don't give up, but embrace bad luck,

put your hands in the air like you don't give a ****

for your only freedom is in your attitude,

which comes from your enlightenment,

which, in its turn, depends on your body's alignment,

mental and logical,

instrumental and physiological,

that is the state of your health,

expressed in your mood.

Even though you're just a jester and a fool,

be grateful for endless opportunities to get enlightened that life gives you.

We've all been given the power of co-creation as a gift.

Unfortunately, not all of us notice and can use it for our benefit.

People often treat life as a waiting line

for tickets to paradise,

praying for enough money to justify the offer of their price,

before they wake up on the other side,

not knowing that they can awaken now,

having forgotten how.

You're addicted to pain that on the surface, made you look tough,

but deep inside, as all of us,

most of all for the balance in this cruel, terrible world, you need love.

Although being awfully unlawful,

I know you know about this paradox -

the universal law of the universal love

that when you long for love,

you fall in desperation.

But as soon as you let go,

as if you are already loved

by yourself in the first place,

it comes to you, and you accept her,

become love.

You give in, surrender, win

without the fight within

through relaxation.

Sit still in silence, see her approach,

show up at your porch,

and gently knock on your door.

Love saves those who are open to her.

Feel how the Universe embraces you,

and spiritual bliss makes sense in love and peace.

Hence the old you are being naturally, gradually replaced with the new you.

Don't sweat, don't fret.

Stay calm as Dalai Lama,

channel the wave

through your own way,

weave your neuro-net

with your own rules

as opposed to relentlessly consuming you, life drama.

All you need is time and space for baby steps.

Too much knowledge blows up your mind

and breaks your brain,

if it even gets to your head,

when you're not ready yet.

But over time, your consciousness grows, expands

to form your invisible core,

filling your inner black hole,

bottomless emptiness,

making you whole,

lest you get caught by undesirable feelings right away.

Unfortunately or fortunately, your past won't disappear completely.

It'll stay as a code in the archives of your soul’s DNA.

Now you reminisce about your past,

like about your old house,

‘cause you were young back then,

spending idly time with your best friend,

dreaming together about your future.

But, hey, you wouldn't relive it all over again, now, would ya?

As PTSD attracts the vicious circle of familiar infinity.

You know, I lost my best friend too.

Do I wanna see her again?

Of course I do.

As soon as you lose your best friend,

he becomes forever irreplaceable for you.

Yes, you are your worst enemy, man.

But you can also be your best friend,

whom no one understands

better than you do.

No matter if you remember or forget,

the universe won't give you the result you want for your attempts.

It reflects your mind's state.

Your wish is its command.

It works kinda like social media algorithms

that have the offer to satisfy the demand,

the virtual network, digital Solaris

in the world of materializing dreams.

Read the reality. Let it go through.

Sense it, even when your mind doesn't see any sense.

You don't believe or know. You feel.

Go nuts. Be my guest.

Here is the moment with no plot,

the moment with nothing at all.

Fill it with something that will last forever.

Feel it to remember your future that has passed,

that you no longer control,

recreating your past.

Guide your sight into your inner emptiness,

where you will find beauty in silence

only for a moment.

Feel it. Don't try to control it,

'cause you can't.

Then let go of it.

You can't change anyone or the world,

only yourself.

It's stupid to have regrets about your past.

Be grateful for the priceless experience,

especially when you can learn on your parents' mistakes

to be able to shape your life into a masterpiece,

created by a real genius.

Now that you know that you are a fool

with nothing to lose apart from, maybe, another destructive neural path,

your world disappears in the moment for you

to walk through eternity and be built anew,

for the greatest magic trick in your life is your death.

If you don't know what to be grateful for,

then be grateful for everything.

I am grateful for the reality I'm in.

And the creator is glad

‘cause he feels it as well and thanks me back.

Call it a divine empathy in reciprocated universal love,

cosmic emotional energy ocean, chaotic element.

I am its particle, a part of her, she’s an extension of me.

The truth is, I’m so ******* lucky to be alive.

God is my witness, I'll be ****** if it's a lie.

Besides, life is a gift,

for which he doesn't need anything in return.

My idol is not my world.

My world is my idol.

And even if he's unaware of my gratitude,

there's always me to be grateful to.

See, you help the universe to thrive

when you enjoy your life.

You hear its music in your blood

when you sound right.

For this, your body must be well attuned

in accordance with the balance of your mind.

There is always enough time for this now, in this moment,

that can turn into eternity.

So don't forget to celebrate your life.

Take the first step and appreciate the way to your aim.

Go for it.

May the power stay forever with you

and your spiritual poetry.

Be grateful for the greatest party,

where you're connected with everything and everybody.

Yo, bro, I hope you know that we've evolved into something more

than we had been before.

Keep going and growing.

Be the light. Go forward.

You're not lonely on your journey.

You can join me if you like.

I don't mind, and I don't bite.

We are all alone,

but we are all one

love.

Like we are the cells of one big organism in one big ******

and through the music in our blood,

we get out and become gods.

Then we meet in the new reality

to grow into each other again

to find God inside of us.

To enjoy life directly, without words,

don't hide from love behind your jokes.

Feel your soul through the temple of your body with open doors.

You are the mightiest god only for yourself in this world,

where there is, in fact, no competition,

only the illusion, which keeps being tirelessly debunked by a free mind for your higher self recognition.

Connect to the source,

take the energy generously, feel it in your very core,

the singularity,

from which the whole universe appears,

and direct it to where you want to be

to improve your greatest power -

your love ability.

When you give your all to love,

you receive even more -

your own infinity.

The key to feeling abundant is generosity.

It's easy to lose yourself when you want more stuff,

search for more ways to make yourself complete.

Being eaten by greed,

you dissolve in it.

If you absolutely need to be engulfed,

isn't it better to be engulfed by love?

Let's go already. Shall we?

The width of your potential is not as important as the direction you choose for its expansion.

What you pay your attention to happens to you,

when you channel your feeling

to something you want to believe in.

This is the essence of your manifestation,

your dream coming true.

Focus on the love of the god inside you,

breathe in deeply,

sense him in silence,

open new dimensions of the one endlessly diverse feeling

simply by saying to yourself, "I love you."

This magical ritual will make you richer and more spiritual.

Solitude

Didn't want to make it too complicated,

but I did indeed overcontemplate it.

One more thing to wrap it up

before I hopefully make myself shut up.

I wonder if we could be real friends.

Well, I guess it depends

on many things.

And I know it's superfluous, let alone too good to be true,

considering the fact that I can't be a good friend to you

till I feel I so much depend on you.

I ain't saying that I do know you.

I'm just saying it seems to be true.

While in reality, I actually don't give a **** about you,

just like you pretend not to.

Though, a part of me will always be a little curious about you

and wouldn't mind if you got to know me too.

But it's probly best if you stay my pie in the sky,

my pure platonic love,

unreachable idol, perfect guy

I made up in my mind,

'cause the cake is a lie,

like your best song will always be the one you've already forgotten,

hasn't written yet, or will never write,

the unattainable ideal on a pedestal,

like the first love,

'cause your fantasy is bigger

than the world you live in.

And what's ideal

in reality, is not real.

So, I guess, we’d better be apart,

even though it breaks my heart,

keep our interests at a distance

lest we be, at best, disappointed in each other

and, at worst, start to ******* hate one another,

or even if we, however, meet,

immediately die

to keep Romeo and Juliet's love alive

and forever young in the land of evergreen spring, exciting, ramancy.

There should be balance to be, at least, less depressed

or, at most, even happy, more or less.

The farther you are,

the lesser the harm,

the better I will become,

for the bigger my ego,

the lesser I am.

Otherwise, it may swell,

rise to a monstrous size,

get too rad, lit, and wet.

Well, sir Raps-a-lot,

you taught me well

how to reach new heights.

I appreciate that,

thanks a lot.

People love to be in love with their idols,

not even with their art,

‘cause they see them in themselves.

You know about it more than I do,

unfortunately, far too well.

No need to tell you the story of your life that sells.

So I like you because I'm like you.

Yeah, I know, it's another cliché,

but it's true.

We must have identically damaged brain cells,

broken in the exact same way.

But it’s okay.

We're no longer covered in eggshells.

Your energy matters.

I can be anything now, except the inception.

The faith in you of like-minded people, your fans

strengthens your faith in yourself.

You believe them and grow as an independent, self-sufficient god,

who's not lonely in the solitude of his art.

In other words, as much as you love what you do,

your stans love you as a god,

and you become their art, too.

They are united by the generously shared lyrical power in one herd,

programmed to belong with a family

by means of oxytocin and enslaving empathy,

one big, uncontrollably frightening crowd,

chasing you,

because they love the way you sound,

albeit a bit too loud,

lost and dissolved in one love,

praying for being heard and saved by their lord Shepherd.

Although they can't fit in your shoes,

they don't feel alone and afraid anymore,

as long as they walk along the same roads as you do.

They have the same problems, the same issues,

trying to resolve ‘em, overcoming weakness, getting stronger together, with you.

They want to save you

and thus save themselves too,

as well as you do.

And even if no one believes in you,

you always got the guts to believe in yourself anywise.

That’s what makes you the greatest of all time.

I'm just trying to be as candid as I can.

You don't want me to lie to you, do you?

If so, I promise to be always honest.

And to be frank, I couldn't have lied even if I tried.

I can't hide what I got on my mind

because the feeling is I.

Believe me, your life will be just fine

as long as you don't interfere with mine.

The farther we are from each other,

the closer to me, you are,

as well as to you, I am.

Let's keep this agonizingly screaming secret

about a childish curiosity, growing into an adult lust,

getting wilder and sicker, between us,

disguising it with passionate patience

characteristic of mentally unstable patients

with unrealistic expectations,

deeply hidden in the **** sculpture,

the virtual statue of forever frozen hot feelings

in my mind, embodied in my body.

I'll be your pipe dream too.

I don't wanna be your fan anymore.

You gotta let me go.

I can't live in two realities at the same time,

when my body is in one reality,

and my mind is augmented with another, love-like addictive one.

Though, I must say, sometimes I'd like to think of myself as a multitask woman.

I just need more than this. I choose love,

even if it's not with you, man.

You can hug me if you want.

I do surrender to my last love.

It frees me and enslaves me

till my death comes.

At least now, I'd like to think so.

While my hobby is you,

my hubby and you are actually alike.

He's also got father issues.

He's also a poet and a musician,

who no longer wants to be auditioned.

In addition, he happens to be my critic, muse, and my mission.

The man lectures and gets me down by saying that I write like Nietzsche.

Yeah, right, 'cause he can criticise,

while I'm just ********

That's a shame, I'm a bad student,

rather his little, loyal, angry dog,

set on the right path to true happiness by the god,

‘cause apparently nothing brings you happiness and peace

except your desire to be happy.

It manifests the feeling that says, "Here it is."

Ah, so needy, clingy, and scrappy.

Still, **** happens.

See, he managed somehow to figure out his zen way out of the world of words.

So writing this book,

I feel guilty,

as if I'm cheating on him with you.

He's trying to improve me,

forcing me to change,

because he cares,

because he loves me,

being scarcely capable of ridding himself of his own bad habits right away,

Adam sculpting his rib out of Eve

so that my life would make sense,

breaking me, making me change through the pain

of burning my art to ashes again.

Actually, he said he wanted to love me without my flaws,

which means he doesn't accept me the way I am

and doesn't love me anymore.

I feel rejected, as he neglects a part of me.

Well, duh, it's dumb and so dark that he can't stand seeing it.

But does that give him the right to disrespect me?

Is this his excuse for being a stubborn fool with a swinging mood,

goofy child playing a stupid game,

having switched to be a totally different dude,

ignoring me, as if he's the boss,

who wants me fired without saying a word?

If conditional love is based on empathy,

I must be feeling the same.

What you gonna do?

Empathy is clearly not enough for never dying love.

He's trying too hard, obviously,

as if he's in despair.

It depresses, ****** me off,

and simultaneously scares,

'cause I don’t wanna know when eternity comes to an end.

What am I supposed to do now,

after 20 years of marriage,

get a divorce,

find courage to embrace my loss,

set myself free, and move on,

or realize that he's the love of my life,

my soulmate, my one and only real friend,

the best I can have, and I can't live without him?

Why do the only options have to be extremes?

Is it impossible to balance this **** somehow?

But when I try, why does it always seem

that I'm looking for another compromise,

a beautiful disguise for the disgusting, ugly lie

about almighty love that never dies

only for more uncertainties to multiply?

How about “in sickness and health"

to keep heaven in hell

“till death do us part"?

Yeah, being rejected *****

regardless of the previous breaking up experience.

But what a stupid and ridiculous fear it is for a goddess,

who's supposed to be independent, strong, and fearless.

Or am I just a little person saying big words?

‘Cause scared of pain and death, programmed to survive,

the animal in me screams,

“I can't believe it.

That can't be happening.

Are you for real?

Oh, my God!

Please, don't leave me! Love me!

Don't you need me anymore?

I don't wanna give up on us.

God, I loved you. I still do.

I will always love you

so much that if you die,

I'll cry my eyes out.

Please, don't push me away.

My love, don't let me go.

Hold me, tell me you love me,

and I'll stay.”

I want him to be happy too.

So if that makes him happy, then fine, okay,

I will let go. I'll walk away

if I have to.

After all, a human being can become strong only by getting over his weakness.

I guess, it's always best to feel your own feeling, whatever it is,

than to entertain yourself by being someone else's witness,

unless it doesn't pertain to a robot-hedonist

or someone who pretends to be an electronic robot, showing no emotion,

but, in fact, is a greedy, depressed perfectionist,

in one powerful motion, pushing off of something that he can't stand seeing,

something that disgusts him

to become a god-egoist.

I'm grateful for what we've had, though,

and forgive for what we don't.

It might be still love,

‘cause it's not the first time

when I had to say, “Goodbye.

But don't let me forget you."

Turns out, it's not that hard to say, "I love you,”

while "sorry” seems to be the hardest word for him,

as if admitting that you were wrong is a sin,

and if you say it, the whole world will fall down to hell, and the devil will win.

Indeed, why care for forgiveness if you can't let go of the grudge and forgive?

Well, I'm not gonna say it again either.

I'm done. The limit of begging for forgiveness is exceeded.

I'm ******* sick and tired of dealing with this annoying disease, called paranoid paradigm,

when we go through the same patterns, the same routine every ******* time,

and again, it seems like I'm losing my mind.

I can't take it anymore.

A relationship's a hard work,

especially when you are repeatedly being reminded of who the boss is.

It seams to be not worth it sometimes,

when we can't click and synchronize,

then have to find a compromise.

Otherwise, as you know, husbands tend to lose their wives

with the collateral damage left to be sorry for the losses on both sides.

But then at the attempt to flee,

something makes you hold your horses,

go back, apologise.

Abracadabra. Let's start over.

Yeah, we're fine.

Oh, so we fight from time to time.

No big deal. That's all right.

It's not like we are capable of going back in time

and undo what we did by doing it right this time.

Why do we take each other for granted?

Sensitive children, rocking on a swing,

healing each other after we reach a new extreme.

Why not just live, enjoy our life together,

and be relatively normal, as we once were?

Were we, though?

I don't wanna fight with him.

I want him to fight for me, for our love

so we could start to feel more like lovers,

like we used to be,

and not the victims of a meaningless war.

Why would I dream of unreachable, perfect, mythical, permanent happiness with someone else if I were happy with him?

Maybe I should be happy with myself first.

The question is, do I wanna be happy?

The answer to the rhetorical question is obvious.

Really? That's it?

That's so simple and stupid.

No wonder I feel trapped like a rat in the corner,

chased there by the hunter Ultimatum and shot dead right in the head.

I guess, a coroner, overloaded with coffee

is not the worst choice

as opposed to a corpse

with an open scull even in a platinum coffin.

But I can't keep this voodoo-doll-zombie-graphomaniac, angry werewolf, hungry vampire, shady, lunatic ghostwriter inside for a long time.

I gotta let her out once in a full moon,

go for a walk once in a while.

I have to let her write at least at night.

The worst thing is, I don't even have anyone to talk about it,

and, honestly, it's terrifying.

So now I'm torn in half between two fires,

the devil's anvil and the hammer of Thor,

where, breaking the triangle of madness,

bad meets evil in the middle of love,

lighting painful sparks of inspiration,

sometimes mixed up with desperation.

Even so, I want you, too, to be inspired,

be always capable of more

despite your being fed up with love.

Also, my friend, please, don't deny it.

You love the image of a *****

Hey, what ya know?

Even Jesus's female apostle

is gossiped to be a lady of light virtue according to the Gospels, after all.

So she's been called.

So what?

Despite the rumor,

she's also considered to be a faithful fan,

devoted follower, and a loyal woman, kinda like a groupie, though.

What a great potential for a saint sinner, biblical *****

for a human soul to grow into a god.

Yo, does it offend you

that I don't wanna be your fan, dude?

'Cause I think I understand you.

I don't wanna have a crowd of fans either,

just one reader.

Nor do I wanna like you as a fan,

'cause I like you as a human

with a very peculiar sense of humor, man,

and as a humble, simple, easy-going person,

genius of controversy.

Yet, I still feel like I am but the best,

meanest queen of yo' fans

in your shady, big fat fuckin' fan club,

the evilest ***** in your devilish church

or, as you call it, the satanic cult,

where you are the ******* king and the supreme god,

kinda like Jesus, the protector of ******

poor, weak, bad girls,

who were so delighted to be near someone so enlightened

and so perfectly good,

that it looked as if God himself came on to them and ****** all over their faces,

glowing with the golden light of God's dew.

And they would be endlessly grateful,

kiss him, embrace him,

'cause that's how great, obviously, God's grace is.

(Geez! I think I might be at risk

of being put into jail for this

too free-speech a piece

or, at worst, burned in hell.

Oh, well… some people are just impossible to appease,

like those ******* never flying pigs.

Pardon my French. I meant the police.

I'm not an asskisser-politician for everyone to please, anyways.)

Well, well, well, look at that.

Apparently, my hobby’s obvi also rap.

Yep… yeppity, yep, yep, yep.

Rhyming pun for fun,

virtuoso word play crap.

I know you won't be able to write anything better.

But you know you will be better than yourself.

Should you refuse to be my friend,

that's alright.

I'm not mad and don't mind.

I'll understand.

Hopefully, I won't be banned

because you're afraid of becoming my friend,

like you are in need of another fan.

What for?

To be together in this, like we are married?

You've already got millions of them.

Why would you want one more?

Especially if he’s as miserable as you are.

There are too many of them.

I clearly can't be the biggest one.

I can never be your woman

and gotta admit

you can't be in love with me.

Even if you ban me, hiding behind your fame

knock yourself out. I won't blame you, really.

Man, I'd probably do the same.

So no hard feelings.

Tell me you don't need me,

give me just one reason,

and I'll leave ya,

won't bother you again.

I prefer real, tangible silence to a distant noise in the bits of zeros and ones anyway.

Look at the history of humankind.

Even through new ways of the art of war,

we see the obvious paradox of technological progress making people gradually grow apart

and learn to control the palpable feeling of unbearable love

that can tear us in half.

We lose touch with nature at the same time.

This social entropy leaves us with a numb holler in the virtual desert as a result.

Evolution brings us to the solitude of a human being, having found free himself in his own god,

capable of sharing life with someone

but always dying alone.

Keep silent,

‘cause I learned to appreciate solitude as well,

forging my fortitude,

having become whole alone

without the need to complete me

now that I complete myself.

Even though you are me, I am my all.

A universe, burst out of singularity.

Well, I don't have to tell you this.

Life brought you there too.

And now it's your reality,

where you are a character with a bad attitude.

It's time to change mine, though.

I don't need to chase love anymore.

It's already here.

I let it in. Now it's in me,

and it's more than enough.

I love myself from abundance,

for I am love.

And I'm grateful for that.

Now I can share it with others.

I'll never give up on love,

not because I am weak,

but because life without it doesn't make any sense.

I know that, getting even greater, it always comes back,

and I can't be offended,

‘cause I just don't give a ****

Free Will

I think, to stop being a fan,

one should be worthy of their idol.

Otherwise, it looks pathologically pathetic and suicidal.

It sounds anarchistic and utopian,

but I believe that everyone

is supposed to be their own god,

a creator of their own art.

Most people just don't know that.

You're designed this way,

it's in the spiral of your DNA, your blood,

undulates like a wave around the golden middle way.

You're a miserable and dissolving in God part

if you do not create your god.

After all, you are allowed to imagine whatever you want

since you've been given a virtual free will

to select your reality version.

It's your only freedom to choose what you want to feel,

which feeling you prefer to be thrilled with or drown in.

You know, you and I,

we don’t even have to die.

I mean, we have been given the whole palette of feelings

not just to disappear.

You can choose your reality now

and stay here forever, if you will.

You live, balancing between two extremes

in the spectrum of diversity in dualism

to choose one of them when you die, anyhow.

Is it the truth or a lie?

You don't have to decide now.

But when the time comes, you'll make up your mind

to be or not to be.

I hope I'm self-aware enough to be free

to choose a better version of me.

Do you think neuro-linguistic repeating

is capable of creating a feeling,

or it will turn into white noise in time?

If I'm a robot, I have no choice, do I?

Well, if I still have a little bit of free will,

can I at least choose to be a robot-hedonist, please,

aside from a boring neuro-linguist?

We have an endless number of abilities in our limited imagination

longing for getting over the boundaries of reality to meet our expectations

for being surprised

and break free from stereotypes.

Reality scares us, it's always unknown.

That's why we run from it by creating our own.

For this, we have art

to interpret it somehow and hopefully find out why

and how to overcome our sense of mind.

We'll see how I can handle my sins.

If I can separate myself from at least one,

that will appear to be nearly a miracle I've hardly ever seen

or will see before I'm gone.

You know, back in the day,

I thought I wanted to stop writing this.

Now it turns out I don't,

'cause if I did really want,

I would have done it a long time ago.

I believe I'm about to let it go

but still ready for more.

Déjà vu

or just a flashback.

I’ve been here with you.

It all had happened already before.

How many times? I lost track.

I don't mind if it dies with me,

don't care what it does to me anymore,

even if it erases me into dust.

Let it be.

Let it burn in me

for me forever to be free.

The rhapsody, annoying, like ****** spread with the speed of a viral infection or a rumor,

vile perseverance of an early bloomer,

exhilaration of the generation of baby boomers,

then outgrew me like a tumor.

I'm not afraid to take it to my grave

or to yours.

But I wish you could tell me it's all not in vain,

that it's not lost on you.

I want you to see my pain

so that you want me to be your friend too.

The most important thing seems to be art,

'cause while I'm mortal, it's not.

It's bigger than you and me,

or any human being, actually.

Manuscripts don't burn. They break free

and stay in their authors' souls for eternity,

as an undying legacy

and the light of dead stars in the memory of celestial gods.

And nothing else matters,

if it's destined to be,

like your fandom madness.

For this, artists sacrifice their lives on the altar of art.

It's a drug that most likely will **** me.

May God set my art free from the Blockchain of the NFT

or at least from the fat neuron tyranny.

Art engulfs you like dope bliss or ******

and takes you to Shangri-La,

from where you don't wanna come back,

like a ******* sexaholic, hopeless romantic, or a ******* ******

drowning on his feeble craft in the rough sea of evil love.

Yeah, I know that my poem is a drug,

cruising in your vessels,

with verses, soaked in dope

so you could get off.

And me too.

I've already written enough

to get high on my own stuff.

I literally wrote a literary dope.

Sorry, I can't give you more of my personal info.

What for?

So you could use it against me and turn my life into a living hell?

Oh, hell no!

I'm not a kamikaze.

You think I'm stupid?

Hello?

I'm not what you think I am.

You are.

Got it?

Thank God.

Hallelujah!

And, yeah, I get the irony. Ha-ha.

Jokes on me, duh.

I am just talking to myself, ain't I?

Uh… yeah, Morfreeda.

But an author is supposed to be objective and indifferent, playing with word patterns, like AI.

The truth is you get used to a bad habit

when you learn to turn evil into love

and grow up to the level where you're tough enough to earn the right to tell people to **** off.

A real artist is not interested in his fans' opinions,

especially when they act like his enemies or minions.

As soon as someone gets offended or touched by his art,

it becomes their problem.

A self-sufficient artist doesn't perform for 'em.

He does it for himself to go further

and leave the past behind,

to be an example for someone

who still needs to distinguish good from bad,

not because it's what the artist wants.

Do you know who doesn't have freedom of will?

Children, people who didn't grow up.

Although I love you as a fan,

I feel I'm more to you than that.

And you are more to me than just a god.

You'd always been more like my rap guide, mentor, brother, and a friend,

apparently the closest one so far,

so good, in fact,

the best friend I have never had.

Even if I don't see how my magic actually worked,

and you read what I wrote,

should you not get to read this before you die,

or I finally lose my mind,

too big for the cell of the scull,

my love will find you in your next life.

I believe I have enough free will for that.

I'm at the same point of the same circle again

to realize that I have free will to change my fate.

How much freedom of will do you need, or you think you have?

50/50? At least you've got yourself.

Sounds fair, not too shabby.

Isn't that enough?

Don't be afraid to love.

When are you really happy?

Tell me, answer, guy.

When you got nothing to lose in your life except your life?

The older I get, the more vividly I realize that.

Don't be a wuss.

You have nothing to lose,

as you are already self-sufficient.

If you are finally happy with someone,

I promise I won't be jealous.

I'll be happy for you too.

Be happy if you want, trust me.

You've got the power,

just unleash it.

When you believe in yourself,

you are the master,

the master of the Universe,

made of indestructible star-dust love.

Your free will is in your destiny,

which is directed by your higher self.

Being caught by something bigger than you are,

you find your place as a co-creator,

which means that you are the one

who still holds on to the painful phantom.

But the feeling everyone wants

is one for all,

described with different words

and yet, ineffable.

It can't be explained.

Your thought-free will can only show you the right way.

I wanna evolve with you,

as though I am in love with you.

Yo, dawg, you are the goat.

But I gotta go further.

I'll dive deeper into the flow of my thoughts and see how it goes.

While my mind is the figment of the imagination of the creator

and, as a character, I say his words,

the character's free will comes from the subconsciousness of the author.

So my fate is God's plot.

But what if I am the god?

Then I'll fly up the stairs of my destiny,

overcoming the amazing maze Pattern.

For if I have the guts to believe in myself when no one does,

that makes me the greatest of all the gods.

There's no me in this world, that appears to be a dream,

because I am the sleeping creator of it

with me within.

Farewell

I hope you don't see me as an impeding, annoying, rude intruder.

If I could say it more delicately and subtly, I would've.

I started this verse as your worst fan

and ended it as your best imaginary friend.

Even though I recognize you in me, man,

I don't actually intend to be your real friend,

unless maybe a penfriend.

Besides, compared to my fantasy, the real you are most likely worse

because my imagination is closer to me than yours, of course.

I know that it all is just in my head.

So I guess it's farewell, then.

I can't believe it's finally happening.

Is this the happy end?

Do you need a hug?

Oh, yeah, I forgot. You don't give a ****

Although for someone who doesn't give a **** you rap awfully a lot.

On the surface, you're a harsh fellow,

on the inside, a sweet marshmallow.

Marsh, I know you want to feel me.

Come here. Give me a real, long, goodbye hug.

Sorry you had to be involved.

It's not your fault.

I have to let you go.

Please, don't get mad or upset about anything I have said.

I think you can say anything to your friend

because he has the ability to understand and forgive.

Besides, this poem is mostly addressed to myself, so no offense, bro.

I just needed to clean out my closet,

close it and try to forget,

write now, then read and get rid of it.

Well, you know more than me about that.

The garbage quantity in your closet

is usually equivalent to the garbage quantity in your head.

Thoughts are like habits, worn out clothes,

that you put on your mind into a plot

to look at it from afar

and get some more freedom.

Obviously, I'm trying too hard.

I gotta let it go,

burn it all,

everything I've written and read.

You, too, need it.

With an empty head, your heart gets filled with love.

I thought it mattered what I said and why I said it.

Turns out, it does not.

You know things may look different from what they really are.

Forgive me if I hurt your feelings.

I thought I was telling the truth.

While I was just fighting my demons,

it looked like I was in love with you.

Although I enjoyed playing with a toy,

I had to pay with my time for the marketing ploy,

the successful American dream embodiment

I've put on a pedestal as a monument

to my shady hero and the old me,

buried with him.

And all the legacy that's left is this eulogy, requiem to M.

I needed to feel and believe in my fantasy

to realize it and create this reality,

wake up in a dream within a dream.

Now I wanna evolve alone, without you,

‘cause I’m not really in love with you.

And I don't wanna be like you.

Indeed, why did I even want you to read it?

I gotta admit,

why would I need you, when I got me

so I can be whatever I wanna be,

become a better version of me?

I know I've said a lot of batshit crazy things

(in my defense, I was high most of the time,

so high on *** also highly *****

oh my God, too ******* hot),

but the only important and sane one is this.

Dude, it's my “ode”, a tribute of my gratitude and respect to you.

Talking to you is a pleasure of making love brutally true.

So in the end, this **** is not that bad, I assume.

However, you perhaps shouldn't even have read about this castle in the air,

evoked by the seizure of inspiration,

a theatrically emotional spasm.

All I really wanted to say is that my imagination with you is a limitless chasm.

I co-create with you.

Anticipation is more desirable than a big-bang ******

Collaborative art, exciting as intellectual *** entertaines as a game,

'cause you get to penetrate someone's brain

and open yours for them to do the same.

The conversation, spiced up with wicked humor and brilliant sarcasm,

fires up the burning sensation of passion

to always find something new in you

thanks to your enormous confidence,

eminent will power, high self-esteem and IQ.

I mean, to succeed, you didn't even need to finish school.

All you needed was to express yourself.

I don't know any other evil rap genius like you,

so eloquent, elegant, but also angry, and rude,

stupefyingly cool and cute,

free beauty and a hungry beast,

who feels eternal spring in the cell of solitude.

For this, I'm forever grateful,

a hopeless romantic, lost in love fool.

Don't ever let me forget you!

Don't let me forget you.

P.S. With all that said, I realized

I appeared to be merely a fan, losing my time,

'cause if I wanna be a peer to a god,

apparently, I gotta have my own art.

Well, maybe not the whole time.

At least I had fun.

You'll live forever in my memory,

even after you die.

I'll resurrect you, for you're my favorite,

concrete matter, indeed divine.

See you. I promise, you won't get lost,

just in case you forgot.

I'll create a new you without words

in the best of my worlds, my god,

or not.

Whatever. The point is,

don't worry, be happy.

Have a nice life.

Find your peace.

Goodbye.

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