With my pen, I carve out the borders of consciousness.
From the emptiness and out of the darkness, I draw her figure.
As complicated and convoluted as it is.
It is the fruit of my pen, for it spits out magic.
It writes with light not ink.
And as it races across the pages, thoughts come to life and jump off the pages.
Crossing over, like sages.
They climb out of my book and stand over my shoulder.
By the will of my pen, they eternally abide.
My pen is the life giver, But my mind is the shepherd.
My pen is a creator of worlds.
Its light reaches deep into oblivion's belly, and snatches the desperate thoughts from it.
Those left behind can only hope, dream of the day my pen will come for them.
Their turn to shine.
Set free to walk the roads of the world as they please.
All they can ever do is hope.
Absurd! How can hope possibly sustain them ?
When hope itself is but another thought.
Could it possibly be ?
Can hope stand on its own and nourish its peers in the depths of oblivion' where no mind dares to venture ?

Yes, it can.
As absurd and cliche as it may seem. In the pitch black of oblivion, hope stands tall.
It shines in the darkness.
Guiding the lost ones.
It is the beacon to which my pen navigates.
Snatching the enlightened ones from its vicinity.
Only the enlightened ones will be saved.
For the world has no use for the thoughts that still wallow in self pity
It has no use for those still drenched in darkness.
Those who refuse to answer hope's calling, preferring the familiarity of darkness to the absurdity of hope.
While those who do answer the calling chant and sing as they move towards hope's beacon.
" Hope, Hope is our savior
Its calling we answer
It bidding we serve
To its guidance we swerve
To its will we give in.
Give in to the warmth
Give in to the innocence."

As if to answer their chanting, the reluctant ones' voices rise.
"Hope is a false promise
Unfounded optimism
Hope will get you nowhere.
It won't take you anywhere
And on your naivety it will feed.
Its will you obey and its guidance you follow
To your demise it will lead.
It is but a false prophet
It is the devil."
Fully aware of the reluctant ones' message, the hopeful still insist on marching on towards the light.
In their optimism they reply.
"Yes, hope is the devil
It is the devil inside
A devil that aches to come out
Aches for freedom
Yet you refuse to set it free.
Instead you smothered it.
Buried it deep within
Drowned it in the darkness within.
In your arrogance you thought you could win
In your ignorance you thought you could contain hope.
Time will prove you wrong.
Oblivion herself has embraced hope.
Who are you to deny it ?"

True, Hope needs no acknowledgment.
Hope lasts forever, against all odds it flourishes.
Its power lies in its fragility, in its scarcity.
Hope is what beckons to my mind.
My mind is what guides my pen and my pen is your savior.

I am kept sane by the sincerity of silent solitude.
Neutrality needs nothing new,
needs no needle or nidus.
My calm comes not from cool but from cruelty,
not to surrender but to split and spare.
Conserve this cacophony
and maybe the crawlers will once again croak and crackle,
perhaps they will again plan and play.

Our mind is an engine and emotion is but its fuel.
He who succumbs to polarity I dub a fool.
A blank face and a heavy heart make me anything but cruel.
In silence I mourn my loss, knowing that again I will lose.
So break me now, while I'm still soft and mend-able.
But know that where I was scarred a thorn will grow.

Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away.
and I chase them deep into our red sky.
the hunt will change me and twist me like I was made of clay.
because your love's like rhinestones falling from the sky.
they fall in my hands and silence my cry.
more...
more...
I want more, is what i pray.

Fly little birds, fly.
Rest your little feet and take to the sky.
Our land is dry and your kin we fry.
Besides we all envy your wings and wish we could fly.
Fly little birds!
The hunters are at bay,
and by their rifles you will surely die...
but only if you stay.

The seeker of knowledge approaches his ignorance as he would a lover; with a sadistic appetite and a hunger for the slow and systematic infliction of pain, delaying the moment of ****** for as long as his stamina allows. And when he finally reaches it, he holds tight to his ignorance, much like a lover squeezes his mate,  and crushes its very body, then drains it to the very last drop.
After the couple are done with their age old ritual, only the seeker remains while he ignorance does not, but what is such a creature to do without a mate? For the seeker, abstinence from such brutality is a fate worse than debility, it rots his soul and consumes his body. He must now start a new search for yet another lover, a new ignorance, to court patiently and later savor sadistically with all his thirst for continuity.

Chaos, oh Chaos
May you bloom in the midst of summer
As a carnivorous flower

I would burn to see you
to see you catch fire
I would perish to see you

To see you melt our concrete hives
and our asphalt gardens
Would that your petals soar
would that your pollen melt
and your stem detach.

A nebula risen from the mud,
infused with anger and grafted with hatred.
May your desperation feed your flame
that its magnificence would grow and fulminate.
Finally to explode
and consume this miserable plantation
where order is farmed and harvested
like a common fruit.