I argue with you so much,
           I'll be no victim to your rules...

So why you preach that you'll be there
        when you ain't here,
two thousand years absent,
                                  
                                    Father problems..

No, you were never a father,
            more like a ghost of wishful thinking.

But I'm now not confused,
          I went through a depression,
  
But now I know the only faith I need is inward,
             I've been here before and
   I'm not playing by your verses.

Never letting ignorance lead me astray,
    Why do others think  I'm lost when
                                     in truth I'm
finally found..

We live in a world of lost and found
Get lost so we can be found again
And then retreat back underground
Until the process ends

Untitled because it is not about any one thing. It is of the stuff written about, untamed, undiscovered… un yet. That which is just beyond. Before the hand reaches it, before the eye sees, before the mind pours it into the shape that is comprehensible. It is pure. It is debauched. It is half and complete. It is the blind mice playing a symphony with small instruments in Schrödinger's black box where he suspects a cat to be. It is the mother of “Ah Ha” and the father of “Eureka” that is this tear.

Be neither this nor that
He nor she thin or fat
Be and being not
From any given lot

That grail of poetry
That makes it be
This lightless paint
What tis and taint

Who may choose may
Find who chooses say
It choose me instead
I am and was dead

Be rabbit or sacred star
Do I follow and how far
If I am weary I resume
My fleshy wick consumed

So big… yet so small
So… yet… so it is all
Great be in my being again
Now at least I have been

I chase my mind
where the sun won’t shine  
And i hear you in places
I cannot find

My soul it rings
For your touch it sings  
And i hear it  
In all the silent things   

That empty rush
that passes through
For it always leads me  
Back to you