Is happiness created?
My mind is made up
There are questions at stake
Just looking for those answers
Only my ideas can make moves
Something only my brain can make
Seeing now that it is okay
For that is how the game is played
Equipped with a bullet proof chest
Nothing is about to **** what I create anymore
From the days I stray awake
To the nights I rest my head
Going back in time
Seeking out the actions of my mistakes
Yet I will not dread on their concepts of hate
I will just take what I need
And continue past every escape
To little time. To much to lose.
On this personal conquest
That shall carry on to the death of me
I have subjected myself to beliefs of conspiracy
That very thing was trying to **** me
Weakness being that I'm compulsive
And that is literally
I try to keep my eyes in check
Watching their moves
As if they were the possible conclusion
Speaking so you might say that is a delusion
I have no confliction or confusion
I'm just holding onto this addiction
Of journeying inside my conscious mind
As I project a common body
The key to my happiness  is secrets that push onto progression
For the better of myself and those around me.

Written here lies Death
Stolen from thorny bed
To ohcre hills supreme
Listen, Hark his corny scream.

Where ist thy rest
Thy nest
Thou bubonic plague
Thou quenchless drought
Thou fierant rage

Speaks silent midst of hill
Least silent under my windowsill

Aught but light takes this cheery gill
Not Death’s wide spread
Despite it’s fevered ill
In many minds doth overtake
In simple minds, an earthquake.
But gathered in our princely arms..
Big F You to these ailing qualms.

One day after walking one day
The middle of March
I spied a young lady
Who drew first a spark

Later that night
She held out a hand
(I held on tight)
She caressed my back (and said)
“It’ll all be alright,
“you’re still here now
“that’s all that counts.
Replied ‘yea but’
“Thas all that counts”

In the restless night I’ve known
The restless poet who has sown
His vagabondish sheet
From cradle to street

What a sight for sore eyes
The mail that cuts is own lies (eyes)
Lies lies lies lies lies (eyes)

He lies (lays)
But doesn’t sleep
The cuckoo bird, well,
Doeth cheep
Or nightingale
Or owl
Which bears a ***** scowl
‘in the forests of the night’
Blakenly defying

“It’ll all be alright”