I guess you can't really have a haven anymore,
These days everyone is angry,
They want to rip it up into internet war.

Can we lay down arms?
Can we still find peace in places like these,
I don't remember this much random slander in 2024,
But I guess things can change fast in three months.

Hold your fire!
Stop the rounds,
Artist are dropping dead all around,
Rodger is an Echo, silent in the wind.
Someone dropped by,
Just to attack Hall and Truth.
When did the keyboard war reach these recesses?

You can't have jack anymore!
Not true, you could have it,
Had you not thrown it at the wall.
I never thought I'd be the one begging for calm,
Critique turned from a reward,
To an assault on anything on a page.

Paying an arm and a leg,
To get a political letter to the front page,
Just to ridicule any feedback you receive.
This went from an escape,
To a constant shock and turn around.
So can we just drop weapons please,
And focus on every ounce of love we pour into hp.

Understanding but
Not really feeling, the need
Others have when they
Absolutely cannot be
Without someone else around.

I'm one awful actor,
You can see it in the red of my face.
One look at your face,
There goes my whole facade.
I won't pretend I know what I'm doing,
I just do what I'm feeling,
It's one wild ride.
Feel free to stick around,
But you'll feel it in the morning.

Something told me that I need you
Unknowing if it was my heart, pride, or conscious
And so I fought
To my surprise I won
Then that shady culprit backed away
Desire gone
You're here
Yet they left me completely alone

Ears ringing, like after a concert.
Each sound, each voice, each tapping, each clicking...
Just—too much noise.
Too much...
Too ******* much!

Eyes burning like flames.
Too bright, too white, too dark, too...
Many colors blending together, creating a mess.
Too much...
Too ******* much!

Skin irritated, like a hundred bee stings.
Clothes rubbing, skin itching, scratching—makes it worse.
Each sensation, like a shock through the whole body.
Too much...
TOO ******* MUCH!

Lost was I,
In the dark streets,
Of this winding city.
Looking over my shoulder,
Searching for landmarks,
Any building I knew.
I was approached by a man,
And I raised my defenses,
But his light demeanor calmed my anxiety.
He spoke to me,
A melodic tune in his voice,
'They call me happiness,
I see you're lost in the dark,
Come with me and let me show you,
Everything you're missing.'

Your life is an interrupted story,
No more than short-term blaze of glory.
It’s a metaphor that hits heavily,
‘Cause you’re your perfect mortal enemy.

Tunnel vision hides altered reality,
Your mind took up self-destructive morality,
Each feeling you’ve got is as deep as the ocean,
You lie to yourself that it cannot be poison.

When stars explode, the light is healing,
As it’s all dark you crush the ceiling.
You feel chills going down the spine,
You’re burning out, lost track of time.

And there’s no scream, it’s a silent battle.
It is vain to fix something that’s fatal.
You’ll never know why dead divine
Still haunts you and whispers: «You are borderline»

the dream is dreaming itself, we are its subjects
the mysterious writing of life, its ellusive quest
an inflationary expansion was deleting its traces
zero degree of consciousness in a moving aliveness
strange rhythms around and strange qualia
there were attributes without letters at first
before a predicate turned into subject
life othering itself into much more in its own image

life was chatting with itself before the knower and the known
spinning the seeds of time, change: its true substance
I am you and you are me but  we need
a symmetry break for the dawn of mind, the other of the body

so much was already done since life was rehearsing for eons its scripture, forms of habit, viable conventions
processing its otherness relentlessly
mind is this forest-creature exulting, hiding, defending,
breaking down, screaming, expulsing, recomposing, sprouting light and lightning

the very first thoughts traversed the barrier of vibrant void
their binding a translation of a body in time, a future storyteller
pure movement the nature of space, the wonder of above and bellow
the first qualia, tension and intensity, an unstructured  flow of frequencies, a cascade of warmth, fullness, emptiness,  
a body discovering herself, her unbearable, her rapture, the feeling of being

the centre is everywhere expanding, accelerating a creative chaos
thinking was just waking in the  field of a dreaming body
thoughts needed to outgrow slowly their skin of imaginary beings

then again and again
dreaming keeps decomposing the already thoughts trapped in their echo chambers, their networked cocoons circle our certainties
a thought needs to die to create another, a sacrifice to the god of the unknown
oh how many deaths we have already died recomposed only by dreaming, the solvent from which reality is born

intensively your body is translating feeling into dreaming,
extensively the mind is dislocating dreaming into thinking  
whille a distant star is crushing itself,  
love rehearses its gravity,
death is saturated by its own dismay

perhaps poetry is this witness of silent cosmogonies