A death so befuddled could only be foolish;
I've made a deal with the devil and will soon perish
Into his mortem of torture that varies so motley;
As I end this show - I drift from a faceless pageantry

Linear and trivial has this question period been;
And now I'm seeing the chariot of the poets serene
It's majesty of profundity and his youthful command
A boy-ish preface to his ceaseless alluding brand;

Of starved affection expressed through the bards lute
As the actor of fate - I'll hang over the mandrake root
A skeletal descendence into the earths pigment;
With no curious exhumers to defile or prevent

Asmodeus and I - As we share our laughable fears;
Appraisal from the creator of what I hold dear
Willingly abiding his whims and demented court;
As the next generation that twists and contorts

The extremes of thought into something strange;
Removing all pride from what shouldn't change
If it seems so be working then why fix it?
A hypocritical cliche lost in the Sanskrit!

There's nothing one can say that hasn't been said;
In this replicated existence recycled from the dead
Societal fornication leaves naught but a sour mind;
Obsessed with the golden rays that present us as kind

Laborious and ridden with worry over wealthy trouble;
Caught up in normality our purpose left in rubble
Conceiving the end of life as something of a curse
Cowering at the sight of the imminent black hearse

How can all these people fear the only thing certain?
Dreading the day they witness the closing curtain
Or have I just thrown away my use for living;
And Gifted all the words that prove costly for giving?

Or perhaps we've so much to tell with no one to receive?
what's the point anyway? Just to preach and deceive;
Ignorant and narrow- we're all just avoidant invertists
With the sole reputation as simple egotists

Regret takes it toll in the oddest form
Just like the queerest smirk I felt so warm
Creaking my limbs until they were hanging loose;
Killing the mechanical switch at the end of a noose

My Prevailing senses fading from light;
And her captivating eyes as my final sight
Clenching my last breath as my only unseen coven;
For I will never perceive this life again..

I awoke inside of a room that i'd knew in a memory;
Where Was I sent? Is this purgatory?
I rose up from my resting place with an agonizing scream;
For I was in my bedroom - It was all a dream....

Publicly, in a place where language and liberty are
held by egotists, teach the limits of minutes.
Remind the esteemed that speed
is a fool for popular belief.

Twelve months, twelve jurors, twelve perhaps.
Trees have grown in sadder conditions.

If you want the confidence of indifference,
then amaze nature with offensive styles and time with substance.
Paranoia is perfect in a nit-pick of cages.
Birds and children depend on the weather -- the size of
your plate is positive protection from detection.

Man is born trumpeted by eliminations,
so provoke the simple and the neccesary.
Wisely, allow falls to perfect your aim
and let submission be it's own masterpiece.

Devote yourself to purpose and exacting hope.
Increase living with    boyhood wonder,
and always love -- transform.

we do not have to beg and plead
to meet with our Gods in mosques and temples.
holy isn’t the space between stone pillars and walls -
holy is the absolute power of our ***,
holy is the space between our legs.
we do not have to hide and disguise
the pain of a hundred muscles writhing and twisting
and sneak into warm kitchens to feed cold stomachs
after hours;
a pounding heartbeat
marking every second stolen to steal food
from a home that is just as rightfully ours.

we do not have an obligation to remain
a glassy lake that lies still throughout the storm,
pleasing every passerby with a picture of themselves;
the narcissists and egotists can go straight to hell.
we do not have to cut our lips on our teeth
by setting our default response to a ‘yes’
when every cell in our bodies unite to protest.

we do not have to pretend to smile at the
uninvited embraces of unwelcome hands and eyes.

because no holy man in a holy temple that exiles women
deserves to rub his filthy hands over the valleys and mountains
of goddesses cast in stone,
and no tradition can lead to the starvation
of a woman who has to bleed if she is to live.
lakes do not stay serene in a storm, they do not surrender;
they bend over backwards and swallow the horror.

you see?
we do not
we absolutely do not
have to
need to
or be forced to
do anything at all -
unless we
really, really
want to.