There is something heroic about dressing simply
Because you need to be clothed well and without superficiality
With the true and natural expression of your knowledge of self
For striving for the ideal self
And for perceiving one's self as already ideal
There is a heroic quality to being the physical embodiment of an idea
Whilst maintaining sincerity, heart, passion
At the same time pragmatism and sobriety
If holiness is synonymous to being devout
Can it be the same for those who go against the grain?
The modesty when most choose immodesty is truly not an act of virtue
But an expression of individuality
Following the rules indicates intelligence
To disobey suggests a higher calling
This is merely about the beauty of being heroic in your wardrobe
Your choice of words must not be wasted
Neither should your choices lack style
Heroism is about doing what routine least expects
There is nothing predictable about the one who blends in
And pounces with strategy in order to devour your heart

I am the last of me,
No one else is unique to my design.
As I traveled through this blue world,
I searched and searched for someone whom could be mine.
Someone whom I could share with on this road,
But alas any attempts ended in failure and suffering.
So now I sit and stare at the stars,
Wishing for all that has yet to be to come true.

I once a got a present
It was danish design
A hoptimist. I was confused.
No function. Not pretty.

Just expensive...

I realized I was a hoptimist.

So I kept it...

You see, I am not human.
I am but a soul with a breath of life.
I am love. I am art. I am dust.
I am made one as the stars.
SAME particles and molecules as the universe.
It must matter that I am made up of M A T T E R
I am limitless. Infinite. Well, I feel infinite in some sort of way.
I transcend time and space to explore its singularity.
... where love was... I began

I am with a naked spirit - bare albeit naive.

I exist
     to feel, to see, to touch, to smell, to taste and to experience
     this tangible world.

'LIFE'

I am pain.
       I am madness.
            I am bohemian.
                 A nomad. A gypsy. A wanderer thirsty for the adventure.

I am not simply made by happenstance
This is the universe. This is fate. This is our destiny.

Let the cosmos guide you. Let it surround you. Let it flow in you.

For I am part of the GRAND  DESIGN

          *and so are you

I'm your master you are my puppet.
We get along with the sickness in our stomachs.
My endless desire to show you what it means to be wired. I'm the the show choir let's build an empire,
they don't know the connection that soothes this void.
They **** what they destroy,
I made what creates hauntings to invade.
Our truth would surely set us far back.

For days upon days, come on! Time to play!
For they don't see the black in our face.

He hurts people.
Not by choice, no, but by design.

He’s like a kitchen knife or a razor.
Hurting people is not what he was made for,
But looking at the way they work,
You’d never be able to tell that.

Hurting people, for example, is not what a razor was made to do,
But it’s very good at it.
And a kitchen knife wasn't made to ****,
But with a blade like that,
Few things are more effective.

He wasn’t made to hurt people,
But when his mind interprets every breath you take as scripture,
And the way he finds earthquakes in your heart beat,
And how when even on the coldest nights
He manages to find warmth in the way your eyes glow like the moon,
How he wonders what it’s like to be your favorite hoodie,
Or how long your smell will linger after you’ve left,
How by nature his thoughts compare fire to your touch,
And ice to your lips,
When you ask him how his day was and he genuinely can’t remember
Because the sound of your voice was the first thing he felt all day,
You’d never be able to tell.

Yes, He will admit it.
He has edges sharper than razors,
And a mind that will cut you into a million fall leaves of every shade of fire.
But he wasn’t made to hurt people.
He just does by design.