Just remember, the most common face can hide the most sinful acts of humanity. And generally no worse the rest of us. For any evil to be accepted, one must spend time demoralizing it in the public sphere. Let it become normal. Remember, ignorance is bliss and Lavey first Satanic sin is in regards to stupidity. For most, morals and ethics are for the others in suits and one’s in isolated libraries. For it at times, monotonous, boring, lowkey, faceless and holding no emotion. In a fog, you can buy a gift for a boy, jumping joy and wagging tail, to which lives in amazement, as smiles from friends, surprised to see crime in the streets as no one places value on education. Do not judge the one who preaches evil, but judge on the size of the mob and every individual there. Anyone in modern age can be anything, including a higher power and veiled pagan attributes. Evil is cannot be cured with evil, as it eats on the same table as you. As a Satanist, I am my own hero and greatest enemy. If I contribute to reality, that is my only connection to a larger society. For both goodness and evil is relative. People work, people live, people love and people cry. Nothing in this world people hold more dearer to their hearts than the things they had worked for. As for that, it is where evil will value. To be completely successful in this life, requires a lot of ego and more ignorance, when it’s too late, your soul had been lost.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1532992472&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince

There is no more alluring scene to attend to, than to make love with
who you love. Passings of the heart in actions. Exchanging parts of
the soul. Denying loneliness in this existence. Forgetting Death’s own
landscape. **** holiness, smoking ancient dogma, saturating poetry
with poetic images. Obscure now. On purpose, turned away from
everyday life. Orbiting words, to begin the process of expressing love.
It’s only done in actions, muted silence, or speaking in passionate
words. Life without thee, a life like everybody else. Dull, local, boring
and aimless, as insecurity to fit in heightens. Lover, as we continue to
live, we are, a paradox to this haunting world, muscling up to mocking
time. As peace drops and stays within us, I’m not longer afraid to live,
because of you, I am no longer afraid to die. I belong to you.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Killing-Philosophy-Reflection-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07F9QVCW4/ref=sr12?ie=UTF8&qid=1531092503&sr=8-2&keywords=darcy+prince

Dreams, the friendly version of the ghosts in unfinished business. Constructing ****** minds and arguing morals, while privately respecting the Devil. Shaping poems, turning ethics to ashes. Sweeping fashions over this world.
Well done. Life given freely to living souls. Death is owed. We’re all in debt. The forbidden fruit always tastes better and generally more successful.
It’s too bad.
Dissent friction. Sparking life. Duality of individuals. I’ll keep going back. I’ve looked behind the curtain and saw everything evangelical. Faith not required. Dogma becomes an addiction. Conformity in actions of order-impressions. Laughs and hugs.
And if a philosopher is asked, reality is depending on perceptions.
Power and freedom are this world's best lovers. Enticed drawn in by people.
For some, the difference between God and the Devil. One can be meet before the act of dying as the other is waiting for you to cross over to be judged. Following one will provide freedom here on earth as the rest compensate to be completely corrupted. Don’t sin in my steps. I’m going to be punished by hard-living. Best kept secrets are told in tender moments after ******* sessions. I’ve got nothing but love for the mystics in penitentiaries, soldiers of the century. I’m directly organized and their husbands will never, because I got away. When I die, teardrops will soak into earth, I’ve got meaning in exile. I’m long gone.

To be in pursuit in my own destiny, to break away
from my dreams. Proclaiming my inner world as
my state. Land walked over. Vagabond. Lusting
for experience. Haunting now. Haunting never.
I’m breaking the narrative of society and made
something of myself. Poetry that I write, is a
different story. Truth be told, its in order to grab
attention from thy lover.
(knowledge variable)

Perhaps poetry is destined to be the hopeless romantic,
a duration meant to endure, not changing a persona,
it just lives, as it’s be, as it should. To live, it’s suffering
in private burdens, while we smile at brief moments of
complete contentment in our singular package of formed
figures. Poetry is a derivative serving ever so few.
(knowledge variable)

As for my only issue with poetry,
it encourages people to join the
next generation of romantics. Loving the beauty of love and all those sighs.
Never
to
experience
love
with
their toiling hands, rubbing the poetic flesh
of their lover. During the exchanges of poetry.
(knowledge variable)

Born into life, without questions, born to a period not knowing what it is, life laid out. Stirred and mixed with stronger overtones of melancholy. Ambition from mundane, a desire to fit in, to be noticed. Born smiling. Twinge.

There’s fear and loathing,
influence measured, as much of success.
Blink and you’ll see the same,
for when open a pair of eyes up. Smile and it will be reflected. Cry, it won’t.

Undefined vanity.

Land of freedom.

Breathless soaking, mist on glass. Violet haze. Fashion as veils. Trends of distractions. Attention, a threatening murmur. Contemplation of reckless emotions. Upturning awareness. Affection wanted. Castle. Inviting gentle poetry from poets that lived hard lives.

******* to one's inner-self. Spades.
How to make redemption on being born? Making an amends,
born into life, opening fire, slightly jaded, it’s not what anyone thought it is.
Charming like gold. Bleak inside. Placing random value. Moonlit dreams. Rustling silk wishes, isolation presence, always alone, gleaming out, as to say that creation is more than anyone could possibly bear. Weighing one down.
The fullness of decaying hope, producing perfume to poems.
Crossing over the duration of one’s natural life. Attempting to pardon the bitterness inside. Though it clings to my soul with dear life, yawning it causes, laying to normal daily
living,
freightful
torrent
fragile
in
common
ways.
Threading malady. Originality always on cue to be tempting, at times to feed, an incredible lust. Everything becomes vivid and heightened, sounds louder, heat rose, perception becomes acute. Avoids eye contact in hope that one’s own inner-life is not noticed. People know the face, barely remember the name.
Innovation is in the aroma,
master of one.
Fate and destiny seems to want to marry.


Maybe it’s a shift of culture, viewing glass, a new dogma.
Noticing the afflictions of life, attaching not to limitations,
the clarity of mind can destroy much of the illusions that seem to float by,
where the youth seems to vanish,
regret builds.
Monotonous now. A fling. Poetry played over jazz.
Burning underneath desire, hanging over, like a bending flower head. A fear strong. Being unsure, questioning, pushing people away, an whole affair, an entire loss.
Collecting old memories of joyus particular moments.
Making attempts to hold and feel a content life, dripping into something, one expected or wanted. Just mercy now.
Voyage
Starvation
Servitude
Burning
Sun
Cold moon
Gathering
Around
A
Fallen
Star
Chanting
For
Romance
Like
The
Kind
Of
Romance
All
Those
Poets
Seem
To
Know
In
Intimate
Ways

Craving against to revolt against the life born into. Knowing at the back of one’s mind, one has
to revolt against the hesitation that one produces.
A manuscript to another tragedy. Expressions of fears, played out on stage. A grandeur melodramatic gestures. Saturating over earth. Cry more? Why for?
There's fortune in freedom. Effort is a must. Courage is trust with oneself. Horror inside. To do, it’s like its been tried before. A certain manner in one's own grace. Self-made beauty. Alluring. Everyone wanted to know, everyone wanted to, always pushed away.
Flashing eyes, widened and still,
mouth closed, clenching firsts. Cursing missed opportunities. Alone at home, safe and yet failing.
        Fascinated with Utopia. Calling out to poets.
        Quenching the fire.
         Asking for passion that flares and continue to progress.
Argue with self-worth.
Entangline with self doubt.
Staying mute.
Do i dare recite poetry to thee? Breaking out on impulse that keeps motivating.or just continue to loathe over unfulfilled wishes. Tomented to be locked in my own stillness.
For I’ve heard the garden of eden contained paradise.
Truth in beauty, it’s beauty because it holds truth.
(knowledge variable)

To place importance on beauty can be argued.
Oh to theromantics, ask them, they’ll reply in
poetics, ‘perhaps their character cannot tame
it all and it drips onto their flesh and if they’re
luck, they’ll imprint earth.’ To which, if you ask
me about the earth, it's soulless, neither siding
with good and evil. It’s up to people to do so.
People give God or the Devil power. A question
to who is at best at enticing. But for me, I shall
have my coffee and be content in love until death.
(knowledge variable)

A life comes to a stop, dry and still air, manifest and illumination, I’m in freedom and in searching wonders that has a stream of meditation, laughing clowns and sadening circus performers.

I’ve written poetry different from how I would speak in person and whenever I do speak, it’s different to thoughts that speak inside. All connected but sounding different. Sparked from isolated darkness and the devil's details. I Won't bother to explain, even if I did, you won’t understand

All poetry is a poor translation from one’s emotions.

Perhaps to the first step to an awakening, is to notice death is coming and that’s always coming for you

When I write, I always end up in a cold abyss, a freezing world, where I’m always alone, despite how many people that love my work.

There’s are infinite amount of paradoxes for us here, perhaps it’s not all for us, they’re just dream-like figures in the wild and unable to be touched. Guilt.

Love is a real killer, it utterly destroys everything you’ve worked towards and devalues everything outside that world between you and your soulmate, rendering it to decay, in dryness and whimpers. And if the love isn’t real. Don’t do it. It will only end up in heartbreak and striking you a certain bitterness, you’ll be unable to shift.

If a man takes on the world, to beat the world, to box it, to fight it, always place at least one grand on the world. The individual will always shiver and frail to the collective

Oh poetry, how it is illuminated by love
and left behind all poems are, because
love is such an awakening experience.
To which, it could not be expressed
in words that’s forms poetry.  
Oh poetry, I do wonder how many of
those in suffering moments, and continue
to suffer in private torment, all because
they could not break, from their reserving
shyness and even though all poetry is
encouraging.
(knowledge variable)