Pain is long and deep, it broadens itself, at self-will, running wild

      motivating any artist to dream, poets dream long and before acting with
grandeur and in youth, there’s nothing but dreams,

                                      as lust doesn’t cost a thing    until all that youth drys up

and the ability to stop dreaming isn’t felt, just aging

to achieve harmony in this life, one must struggle for years, especially in poetry, where they can all articulate love, like the Tenor or the Cellist, over composed symphonies. And the ******’s praise them all.

                               my heart is in my hand, because it’s pierced
                               those who have content, are the ones who
                               dared to live in the first place and I’m still hung
                               up on you, because those who’ve lived, seem
                               to have experienced love, my heart is caught
                               providing a helping hand to write any poem.


      People had made love without poetry, because lust is easier.

                              And when awareness kicks in, it will be too late and poets join time to mock them with heavy laughter.


    
                  I grow tired of waiting, fatigued after actions with efforts of affection


Life goes on


No-one likes the lovers lost in love, because it reminds them,
of what they don’t have, wondering if the love is wild and roaring
or if it took their youth to tame. No one likes the lovers lost
in love, because it can devalue any romantic piece, those
lovers in ****** acts, intimately fusing their souls together,
getting to know the ecstasy of illumination and addicted to
sparking awakening in each other. For no one likes anyone
in love, for their souls are free and without void and despair,
so they shun those lovers out, in return those lovers build
a world of their own, forgetting the earth for the rest of
humanity, never to fit in again. Can you love a smile? Can
you love a glance? Holding hands? Would you tame beauty?
For without love, the law means nothing and the poets will
turn out as serial killers. For no one likes people being truly
in love, because it reminds them what’s without.

                          I can read any poem, for such things as love, is not written,
   only expressed in actions, whispered in the ears of night,
                                 spoken by the mouths, who’ve been to the horizon
                                 and back.
Only in love, where it can strip anyone down to the ****, bearing to the world, all their faults, sins, mistakes and regrets, revealing all their secrets and transcend into a saint. A Muse for the world. I don’t know about you, to what I think about those first kisses between yourself and your lover, is conversation  between Angels, closing lips, each other’s breathes felt lightly pressed upon skin, and the Angels sing when the lips are closed, holding hands and finally the delicate souls can meet and begins to feel safe for the first time.
             And everyday sounds, turn into love songs, that we’ve grown to accustom
  to listen to, without knowing their meaning. Living now, like life ends at the end of the day, you can blame fate for falling in love or you could just go out and experience love. It’s a place that we all ache to go, twinge at the sight of it, love involves the energy of any supernova that births beauty on site, creating memories for poets, adding
charm to this present, parenting the future, dragging things up from the heart, when we dared not to and finally for the first time, you shrug your shoulders and let go.

                            As for anyone telling that you have to work for love.
                            Slap them as hard as you can. Than recommend them
                            a good lawyer and a young lover for their spouse.

(knowledge variable)

As for freedom, I’ll accept being hellbound
if I won’t be heldown. Since that life is based
on sinning, on ancient scrolls, turning *** to crack,
until the militant mind, my private machiavelli
returns, it’s all eyes on thy soulmate. As being a
natural born romantic, I’ll trade freedom for one
moment with such person, enslaved to one single
moment of Heavenly presence, making all poets
chant songs of envy, causing the mundane to
rethink their entire life. For I shall subscribe to
liberty for the heat of my soul, whether it’s in my
personal temptation, known for flashing or for thy
love of my life. The world is mine and my own status
is determined by the quality of my thinking. I’ve
learnt how to live with the time given to me and
fear only never to live. I’ll be real, living or dead.
To anyone trying to prevent, I’ll destroy everything
that you touch. Against all odds, I’ve peered behind
the curtains and dare to continued.
(knowledge variable)

1 -

No glares of missing eyes, just the one, at the center that soars high. Mst of all. It fles, careless and free. It’s hands pills precious wine, as it recites poetry about the end times. Conjure up as emotions of failures and shame, meet within. Not million, in fact in the billions dismissed the thought of arrival. Shutter in fear and weep to each word spoken, in that poem, that recites, in every detail, how your life will end. It’s tongue, doesn’t skip a beat, rhymes perfectly, in every human tongue. Though it’s a tyrant, some have complete devotion to such creature, redish aura over a dark shape. The eagles seem to cry. Rats and cats run to it, to pay their own homage. Fogs and dogs, mist and a devilishly ******* smell. Pigs talk and end up screaming about sacrifice. Such is early talks, of such end times. Prone to sudden fits of rage, wearing cold ****** to the creature, is as natural to him, as breathing is to you. Gold, *** with virgins, praises will be used, more valuable to what had just been written, one’s own soul, nothing in this life is free, everyone was given life, despite never asking for it. Master of famine, king and queen to poverty, dreamer user, inventor and distributor of disease. When voted in men and women give in, trenches of brave people, rage war, knowing privately they’ll fail. Still they try. No one is truly pious, it will take more than forever to master that trait and so very few are blessed with immorality. This creature has the attributes of a supreme leader, just without its own kingdom. For in no dogma, no myth, no whispers of physical storytelling knows of such creature, no prophecy, nothing, not even in Nostradamus. Endless it seems, for it walked to the horizon and back, perhaps it comes from the other side of the moon. Trembling slaves in chant in joy, from learnt pleasure and addicted to a self-produced evil, after so much, they grow to love, follow the creature, sweeping down to help. Fine, call it demons if you must, for most, that's the best their own imagination can conceptualize. People are their prized pleasures to take with them and eventually turn into them. Lust can be good. We’ve got something inherent in us and encourages us to be a bit more carnel, sinful, selfish and so on. Most just keep it a bit better kept, inside the privacy of their own home. After-all, in a democratic system, ****** got vote in. not in vain read this, do not concern yourself from where, how or why I write this. Death will come, the end of the world will come, just ask yourself, what will come first? Work for everything, but cherish nothing. In the transition, you’ll never be permitted to take anything with you. Just your soul to what makes you good and your sins to which you've committed, and will atone for at gunpoint. When you hear your fate, life will either be a total blessing or something completely unjust. Both will last forever after death or the end times. Solemn. Poets, be master of your word, painters, be master of your strokes, musicians, be master of each note. Do not live in angst people, life will be better before this time, without anxiety, at least some joy will be experienced and not something to be yearning for. Wild beasts will come and **** your first daughter and chop off the private of your first born. Without a care and it’s master will teach them how. Humanity is only a glint. One glint. Like a star. Pretty from a distant, something to philosophize over, than learn, but close at face sight, the star is already dead. Whoever said the struggle will stop today? A-lot of Mystics dead and never to be martyred. Plus, you don’t have any gold to give away, so you can remove your past. Underslung sky, now is not the time for fear, that comes later. Desolate intense resent nothing at the same time of everything. Bloated with both virtue and lust. Malice. For life wanted melody, instead, people got malady. The creature stepping over earth's land, people run, as that very military shoots and ending fail. It’s not monster film. People run, some stop to pay homage and offer their souls, as the so called demons **** them up, those people turn to sin and **** in **** form and iron race, become. For some, if they’re going to be talented, it’s far better to be such of someone in great fame, to things they've always wanted to do to one another. Most people die. The creature sets up camp, Astana. Takeover and demands complete and whole obedience. Holy books burn. Slaves for the rest still living, though mostly dark ashes fall from the sky, grey colour themes, burning bodies left on the ground and homeless children asking for their mothers walk, all people see is their personal fear. Lukewarm life is at best. Daring not to live anymore or any better. Once a servant to one's life, now just a servant to dying days. Violet in all violence. Voiceless tears inside interior chambers, cry private prays, not even confessing to one another, muted silence between people, saturate this earth. Marching to Zion, they’ve given up. And no network of hope or revolt. In harmony, all remaining poets weep at a blanket and shared evil, that everyone is experiencing under this rule. To the police, in tempest wrath, those demons that tagged along. This is a neo-empire outshining those before. It’s a shame that stupidity isn’t painful to one’s whole entire essence. Wanting avator’s. Getting none. Over a thousand year period, lavish pillars rise, it’s that humanity forgot about the godhead-figure, they simply forget. New omens provide a new scent for earth. Astana remains the capital of earth. With different races of tiled skin, phishing tongues, tall, green. Peoples private hell is prolonged. The rich **** any animal and tear off their skin, use it as fur coats, they smile. So let’s take a trip, where anyone can **** limp, ******* in public and spend money on any mofoe. Getting lonely, I can’t control it, pass me the blunt, let me roll it. Perhaps it;s doubt in anything that will bring pain, not knowing the truth that I had been hoping for to bring me freedom. Supreme leader is now the title of the creature. And everywhere he goes, are ****** ******, both men and women, preferably if they were under the age of sixteen. Because they haven’t been broken. With no floods, no locus, some disease, ****** became normal and a bit of ****. No money, a lot of silver, a neo royalty line is produced amongst people’s blood, the half cast between those demons and virgins, both male and female. Swallowing eternity. As any prince would laugh. Though from the sky, the earth is drowsed with new philosophy. In textile fields, elderly women tend to those fields, all missing one eye and stuck in old age forever. As young boys run naked around neo palace’s. Just only entertainment. Writers invent new tragedy stories, abated pale, blue and pure. Misting stageplays for giggles and laughing till it hurts in the stomach that encourages everyone who watches to give into lust. Like we’re all meant to do. Along watery plateau,  different breed of Mystics walk, those born in the world before that survived the initial stages, ate eagle eyes and living now, until time decides to stop mocking everyone and finally give up and provide the final solution. Under red dusk, those know most things are propaganda, freedom inside someone’s *******. ***** everywhere. Like steam leaking from any paved roads and newly built cities. Images strung from the air that remind people, peasants too be honest, that we all can die. Disc of time. Burnt colours. Nothing said about hope, love and romance. No weddings. As for babies, they pop up at random places, roads, dumpsters, fields with goats, public toilets and the nile. To whoever finds them first, by law they are the new parents. **** is punishment if those do not take the babies. **** kittens. Rereading of Ovid. Talk of having Latin as one language, going beyond this world. And Helen is her name. Streams of Blood. Phinx is his name. My king, my queen. What tears can bore? The dooming death and nothing forces us to change or to know, nothing greater than pain. Bore. shame and exile to those who age. Life is not for them to claim, old-fashioned school of thought, doub their words. Until a neo-poet rises from the ash below, drops of stars and Lions stand on their tongue, not from wrestling but out of respect, breed of new prophet in these times of neo-dogma. Revolt personally as a single person in revolution. People to pray to this poet as they write words on the second renaissance, where only those born to create great works of beauty to walk this earth, like Monks in a monastery. At the moment, until it defeats the creature, monster to any god, it's only a moment or glimmer of hope. One hero, born under one tree. Weaving thoughts of romance, soulmate to those with intelligence, poetic to the poor and match to one only, no-one else. Most of all, birthing life for those who deserve it.
(knowledge variable)

Thou Shall not avoid one’s destiny, Thou Shalt not turn face behind closed doors. The walls have ears, from those from the other side have planted eyes there. You think those people know better, because they’re older than I am, hate to be a burden, but you giving illusions to construct my character to a lesser version is a cultural sin and I’m happy to be cutting your throats over those preventing my own destiny and that’s real. Because I’ve seen the other side and they all have mocking faces, just like what time does. Against all odds for I have prevailed everything at all costs and parted from this earth without the transition of death. You’re not live like me. Your secrets, out of the closet, close your mouth. You can tell you wife whatever you want. But everything past or present comes to the light. Can’t player hate on me. To the Mystics, they know the difference between me and you. Light skin, socky, with a Haitian accent, known for flashing. Working for the revolution, still I snitch, you tricks can never shut me up, touch one of mine, I’ll destroy everything you love. Same trail, just different courts, picture what he said. I’ll be real, a legend, living or dead. God don’t like ugly, but you can meet the Devil before death. For those who don’t rhyme right, seen too many movies. BANG-BANG. Forgive, for they’re trying to **** me. Not for the revolution or that other side. Now I got two rottweilers next to my bed as I sleep. Mystic poets done in the dark. They can paint in you in red and your another dead laymen. Lurking on you, as they break bread with Gods. Because actions speak louder than actions.  Just started form initiation of an outlaw immortal. Seeing the grander things of ending times. Passing the period of the biblical rapture. I’ve awaken, risen and it’s a choice not to fall. I can remember those boys trying to get me in thy sleep, my buddy has no heart, it was in the middle of the Cross, they talked loud till my buddy starting popping off, scattering pedestrians. Those peasants now wish they never stuck their heads out the door. Would God be satisfied the loaves and fishes and itty-bitty thimbles of Communion wine, while Satan to have the red-eye gravy, eighteen-ounce New York Stakes, and buckets of chilled champagne? Would God really accept twice-a-month ******* for procreative purposes and give Satan the all night, no-holds-barred, nasty “can’t-get-enough-of-you” hot-as-hell-*****?Think about it. Would Satan get New Orleans, Bangkok, and the French Riviera and God get Salt Lake City? Satan get ice hockey, God get horseshoes? God get bingo, Satan get stud poker? Satan get LSD; God, Prozac? God get Neil Simon; Satan Oscar Wilde? Devil is happy when the critics run you off your feet, poor God, getting blamed for all the world's misfortunes. As for me, I’m in the middle and produced something duality. For joined the Outlaw Mystics, where humanity calls mad and all those religious peasants shun us out and anyone, regardless of side know better, they all tempt our souls, but I only mock them, cause they know I’ve reached immortality and I laugh.

I heard a rumour that I died, murdered and shot,
to lay in cold blood. Everything weeps, for when
they shouldn’t. But it’s all fiction. Someone had
gotton the story twisted and chanted that I no
longer exist. I’m not hard to find. For when I die,
I want to be a living legend. To lead ways of wild,
into the blood of women, as I punish all men of
their petty ignorance. I could remember what those
behind the curtain told me, it was everything that
Blasphemy is. And I’ve accepted, to run to my
own destiny, they’ll be those ready to hate as the
others there to support. For that, I have nothing
else to say to either side. For I’ve already left, for
a living death. Pictures of me in my final state, as
I smile and go on. Babylon beware. Peasants in
Jerusalem waiting for sign. Mystic join time, to
mock everyone here on earth. The future wants
me buried, because I know who’s lying. There’s
generations of people, wanting to change the
world and fewer people wanting to change themselves.
My heart is pure as I speak of humanity in vain.

In the time of dying, you’ll remember when you
have meet and turned away from thee lover, for
whatever mystical reason, redemption can be
offered, whisper their name, whisper it loud echos,
never stop the streaming image of thy lover, there
is no cure for love, none, you’ll carry the lover
over to the next life. Will it be a burden or blessing?

There’s no turning back from her essence, a devotion of deep discussions, enlighten intelligence, speaking in poetic forms, I’m blinded from her inner-world, teaching generations of humanity and leaving behind multiple renaissance. I measure the progress of my own life, by how content my lover is, I’m unable to see it any other way. For if that makes me morally wrong, parting from this world, fine, let it be. As for my lover, destiny has installed something greater, musings over this world, it’s ******* with your Heaven. It’s an historical event and something I witness in my own ****. For I’ve put too much work, investing in her love to turn back now. I’m desolate without, sinful without, the horrors of reality shadow over me, I’m unable to breathe without her attention, I wouldn’t last on the wrong path. Fo my entire essence, soft, gentle, tender and always yearning romance. I wasn’t born like this, I raised myself this way. For a brief and accidental moments, for I saw the entire worth of a woman’s inner-world and saw the face of God. And for the first time, I transcended, it’s beyond addiction, it’s life’s entire purpose. I leave my poems here, when I cross to the other side, so she can see my heart is pure.

“It’s far better, to do your own duties imperfectly,
than to master the duties of another.”
Lord Krishna

Even just to live, takes extreme summouring
threads of courage. To have that same courage
to be self-produced, is even rarer. Without
anxious dependence, as this present, unfolds
into the future, parting from the past. To stop,
for a single second, to have romance, under
candlelight. Blessed. There is no easy way
from earth to Heaven and to dance with the
stars, that humanity call ‘constellations’. Do
not debate it, those who dare to live originally
is the brave, without fear of persecution. Material
wealth slaves the fool and has the potential to
master the wise, the poorest person is the one
who still wants more. The sun still rises and
even on sin, it still shines. To whoever has ever
experienced love, knows how to turn themselves
into a muse to poets. And there I go, to cross these
plains in utter exile, in hope to avoid death
(knowledge variable)

Live now, live hard in passion, live now, as if
all eyes are on you to lead them, live as if forever exists
inside, let no mind be fraile and know fully-well,
death is around the corner, in all it’s conquering
glory, for death is definite. Live now, like if one
has destroyed both desire and anxiety. Live now,
as if you had discovered love. Live now, as if
your soulmate had just broke freely from the
mold of poetry and had demanded it from you.
Live now, as if your own fate is turn into a
burning Muse and in the transition into death,
your reward is be a martyr. For those are who
had lived when they had the chance.

Let me soak in something than higher art, expression of reality that I experience. Effortless and distinction. Eternal on dawning-awakening. Evening kisses under moonlight. Pulling contrast. Attributing lines to poetry, but must experience the romance first. Deriving from dreams. In remote areas of my inner-world.

No mutual admiration, I adore the thought of being loved, for I have so much to give and I’m slowly tiring with engaging with poetry.

Their eyes glittered heaven and waved into my soul, lingering inside now. In mystery, touching my flesh, soothing poetry. Exchanging secrets. We conversed for days, afterwards, we sat in silence and I felt content for the first time. I had always read about love, poetry, novels, in songs I heard. As for finding one’s soulmate, I had always thought they exiled to the cosmo’s and never to exist here in the present with me now. Evoking meaning into me. Galactic beauty. Though it’s wildly-overwhelming, taming my entire essence. We kiss. Touch. Stare. Smile. For I have travelled far enough to meet the one shaped only for me.

Harmony.

Blending in paradise, paradox and reality. Be in the sweep of movement with me. It’s a strange land. Normal to my Muse. pounding scarlet. Brewing violet. Velvet blending. Long time melodramatic epic. As for my peers, they’re blowing in the wind on death row.

For me, I rose.

Installing myself into history. Drifting away from this world. Combing body, soul, heart and formed my essence. Belonging to a kingdom, unable to be articulated in any form of art or poetry. It’s sinful to avoid it. A culture of Muses, coming together, from something I just wanted pure love, in poetic romance, epic symphonies. Opera written than sung for me. As I approach my own destiny that I crafted for myself, there is destiny, but vain, despair, angst and pain, is from not from acting on life and falling into the mundane. With climate of the adoring music. As lyrics leaving me spellbound. And without a sound, I slide down, the tree of life as Goat heads pray. The trinity men singing in chanting words. Spanned across period of humanity.

Burning into consciousness.

In rewards, mythological fame, I’m in a world of my own. A single drop, into limitless paths, expressed wit my own hands touching immortality, as the population watches as a defenceless witness. Tender and full of emotion. I can birth any future for anyone

There’s nothing more eloquent than that glance at your lover, that somehow forces magic inside to boil and burst inside and you’ve got nothing else to do, than to violently act in ******* session, disregarding the world outside. All in unpredictable fashions, forming historic times, in it’s sliding wild and roaring romantic themes, that’s even new to our Muses and as humanity looks back on the lovers, it sparks the second renaissance. Kissing and touching in singular places, urging to move on, because it’s all too painful not to kiss and touch everywhere at the same time, moans turn into love songs, through the physical, the souls transcend through becoming one and finally, the meaning of life becomes all too visible, as for the fact of being all too human, drips and drops away in melting fashion and finally, like the bluebirds being let free from its cages for the first time. Lovers become free to live as they should. Angels in Gods eyes and illuminating everything they touch with ease. There is no boundaries between the two, no secrets, nothing to hold them back, all personal fears and insecurities become forgotten, like their personal history as their private-public flaws are mastered and moved on from. And in a gasp of romance aroma breathing in air, and perhaps with a little sting of envy, for anyone blessed enough to witness two that had found each other, despite life’s and this society's flaws, sin, expectations, they’ve got nothing to do, but to continue to gasp in awe, bringing any heart to tears. Though how ******, how much of cruel trick, with joking laughter, life would be, that there would be utterly no hope of actually finding one’s soulmate and experience the true and pure love of a soulmate and that dream only belonged in poetry or to some parallel world. And as much as I expect to be held responsible for thy sins committed in this life, for I fully expect to uphold my creator to my soulmate, whether that I get to experience them or not. Now I fully understand, that whether I’m living in paradise or not, it presents self-awareness and knowledge, bliss truly mixes in with the ignorant. As for now, all I know, that each love poem is only a trail left behind those who had experience it.

As for my own redemption, to all that I took apart by ignoring, I could only use this present to parent my future, not to repeat the mistake I’ve suffered in the past, do not pity me because I have. For I had apart in it. Strip back beliefs, perhaps there is no inherent good or evil and it’s all left to our hands to contribute either. It’s tiring engaging with this world, noticing my own duality. By each sin committed, by our acts of kindness, there’s a twinkling ripple in our actions and it’s the same in our silence that lacks any actions. The sun rises in the east and settles in the west. The sun raises itself daily.

For let us pray, we’ve all sinned and as for my kindness, let me learn to be self-satisfied in being the only person of knowing such action has taken place.

It can be a small world, constant crossing over moments, little for elevation, words on the wanting it all to end. As to the amount of gods in spectrum-history to humanity, to the same count can be called for the apocalypse, for it’s nothing new in the human psyche, the yearning for it is as strong to know the meaning of one and the entire humanities meaning. It won’t stop. Until it happens and when you speak of the Devil, he shall appear.

To develop, to know, to learn, to act on, to practise one’s own character that fate I had mention, to unfold throughout life is nothing short of an addictive-venture that brings such a lonely sickness. As to most laymen, for it’s too hard to grasp and ponder with thinking thoughts, that’s why martyrs had been deemed crazy-mad prior to dying. After that fateful action in death. Their life had personal permission to full live without fear of the outside.

Eat the apple.

Life can be taken in as thawing out.

I wander in darkness seeking light, failing to realize that the light is in the heart of the darkness. Surpassing all culture’s creed and dogma. Rising from the water to jump off the edge, flying through the clouds and drips of dazzling rain. Not accepting the natural status that others had placed upon. The mystics that sing the mysteries sing louder, binding themselves onto me. The glitter to the normal world is everything that vels are. Wisdom has o fears and as a pool of it, self-produced, never to run dry, for it eventually covers the ocean floor and everyone wants to know the code of poet’s immortality, never want to lead a new generation.

The world can end today. But not before I have my coffee.

For I’ll walk a flock of flames.

Conversing philosopher with the one, who holds the heart of a soldier and the brains to teach a whole globe.

Let me be abandon, exile in isolation, coming to grip with death as a unavoidable action, never now, will I need to repent on never living my life, perhaps those made from genuine substance are the most lonely in known cosmos, doomed to read to poetry to pass the time, avoiding to be the contrary to those sticking to the masses. People collecting and colliding together, unsatisfied with themselves, filling out with luxuries, like rats scattering across the creaky wooden boards, avoiding those opposite - plagues. Love in poetry is never fulfillment of love, ony in the experience, no series of moments in life will stop the struggle, awakening happens in the blissful combustion in conquering the mind, the totality of being in existence, dominating reality and birthing freedom from it, life’s meaning has nothing to with being saved. To when I die, do not weep for when my coffin drops into the ground, for I had already passed, left to wonder this life, alone in exile, [pictures of me in my final state, on poetic grind, refuting mysterious rumours, waiting for comrades getting murdered and resurrected, can’t lie, got no love for the other side, at that other place, rumours that I died, murdered in cold blood, I just left.
(knowledge variable)