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There’s nothing profitable in poetry,
but everyone looks at the poet in awe,
there’s something about reading a
poem at the time, in the right mood
that sparks nothing that’s contagious,
but something illuminating.
It's’ easier to suffer
than it is to love,
love is in the wait,
suffering is in the now.
Writing into poetry,
anything can be,
but as I look back on
past, it’s there
& never leaving.
To I wish not all of it,
not everyone there
was apart of it.
To I yearn to write
on love
& not vent.
When in love without a lover,
all one can do is write poetry,
talking over one’s heart.
Is it too selfish not only to matter, but to belong? Despite how guilty I feel, how much sin I’ve committed, my failures, my shortcomings. Is it so wrong to devote myself to myself, to find my own meaning, my own cause, my purpose, my drive, to look for my own happiness, my truths, to **** my desire so I wouldn’t feel that I’m missing out, to find something to fill my void, so my soul wouldn’t live out throughout my day wounded? Even if I seek in external at times? Is it so wrong to be poetic, to be romantic, to be thy. Even if I turn to people like Aleister Crowley, to be inspired not only to think rational, to be passionate. Is it wrong to read philosophy, reject the thought of being complete is in the search of becoming complete? For I’ve peered into myself I found only sadness in the despair I saw & I don’t like. No matter how dramatic this is written, it is my truth, my burden, my curse & it’ the price I’ve paid for originality for wanting only to be myself & I find hard to smile realizing what I could've been by playing it safe & been without to what’s internalized in me. I’m meaningful to you, but a paradox, because I’m without you. I’m only on the brink of your life. As long as I’m on this earth, in this life, I am, unable to & able to live, alone & with others. I weeping now, but you weep when I’ve gone.
Because I am with myself all the time. Everything I do is needless effort, your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, it turns away like running feet in the mist, seeing God for the first time, I cannot see in your soul, do not enter mine, you may or may-not find what you want.
Personal intrigue can get
one entangled with another,
I'm so pretty, don’t do it to me,
you’ll leave, can’t keep up,
cause I’m contraband, so you’ll
find another, latch onto them,
cause their in pain.
You go tell someone, rub my tummy
get your fix.
(glory under silence is pointless,
don’t puff out your chest, come alive,
use a vest, fire back)
Poetry intended to be written over Heaven,
but it’s everlasting in Hell.
Eternity to eternity.
Shadows without a face, nevermind, if I left
tell your friends, natural causes is a
serial killer.
Discolouring of magic, paganism,
it ain’t even easter.
Scene one, coming out crying, not on
the stage, I found myself at a table,
with divas & bunnys, with their dealers,
pimps & bankers,
I’m on the guest list, giving me bourbon
& *****, cause it’s how they wanted.
Mortal wrenching,
easy to commit to vice than to virtue.
Wordless language in both morals & evil.
The ones who
can transcend, their soul
is waged over.
(I’m cliche, cause I can obtain traits
from ideals, resulting in being original,
I’ve been told before that
I’m special, few had ever thought about
it, rub my tummy, get your fix, smile for me now)
I maybe cliche, I maybe melodramatic,
attending to my intense emotions,
luminous & free, painful & curse like,
liberty I wanted, but its freedom
from myself to what I need.
What is intelligence? Is knowing what to do when one hasn’t been taught?

Education often relays on history and a repetition of facts. Rendering people not creating new things or thoughts, even if education can be a bedrock as something one can derive from. Thinking without writing. Not all philosophers are dogmatic. Despite their sole education or speciality in a branch of philosophy. For most ideologies derive at a finality. Where actions can viewed as applied knowledge. But education itself can be a prevention from someone discovering themselves, laying a path for ignorance. Facts can prevent people from thinking for themselves. Every structure is to be thought of as a particular form of equilibrium, more or less stable within its restricted field and losing its stability on reaching the limits of the field. Language is often the key to any intelligence, from the narrative of the mind, to the spoken or written word to the receptive person. As philosophy just question or self-thinking. Reading is only partial. Documentaries only partial. Dialog is partial. Experience is everything. The present is the problem. No one ever use the present as a parent.

Everything is incomplete.

Exposing oneself to thinkers, Sarte, Plato, Chomsky are only a few. Ignorance will always plague humanity and be told throughout history, public or private.

Making the Bible public, gave the common people a reason to learn how to read. Accidentally birthing both interruption and criticism outside the professional network. Despite intentions, duality will exist. Marcus Aurelius put forth what we do now will echo eternity. The exertion of will over reality will provide a conflict in the domain of reality, affecting the person exerting, whether it’s good or bad, will be based upon the reception.

Every truth comes sooner or later. Long term and short term self always around.
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