When the truth blows, it kills all the liars
in a explosive way, it dents history, as it
should. Left for all future eyes, as it reads
into the past. Potent and poetic, hopefully.

It’s generally the one you let go, that one
is meant for. Perhaps when memories turn
to golden smiles, to what if’s. Do not render
to poetry as compensation, but it’s alright
to write tears of self-resentment in poetry.
Though it’s cliche to start romance in one
glance, but the eyes are in search and
leaning inwards, feeling one’s breathing,
souls wrestles, intertwined in one kiss.
However overused the glance is, the strongest
love always starts somewhere, it’s the same
from the greatest heartbreaks. And poetry
knows who deserves love and heartbreak.
With the romantics chasing the feelings.
As perhaps life is nothing but a dream and
each poems is supposed to ease each pain,
but we write like how we dream.
(knowledge variable)

Laymen, I do not hate you, I just wish
not to be like you, rather die of passion
than boredom, blended with the rest.
I’m in too deep. Thou Shall not steal,
Thou Shall not squeal the secrets, Thou
Shall not ****, rub me the wrong way,
Laymen, I will, Thou Shall not cheat,
Thou Shall not born mystic, one has to
work for it. Civilization will not reach
perfection, until the last philosopher stone
has fallen on the last sinner. Be concerned
of not period of humanity, past, present
or future, always be focused on this current
life, the intensity and rawness of it all.
Laymen, it is fate, I wish not to be like you,
there is no other greater sin to any culture
than ignorance in action and trust me,
and it has not relation to economic poverty
when it comes to war.  
(knowledge variable)

Oh poet, my dream is to witness you
to fall in love, that you’re consumed so
much love, that’s at the point of madness,
and you forget to write another poem.
- knowledge variable

Freedom, the secretive and conclusive gesture,
that life has bread in the either, echoing with it
in the air, perhaps it’s greater than love to the
poets. It is all that above, freedom is, or it does
not exist. There’s a scent to it, as our hands
naturally know how it feels, to every attempt to
grasp upon and hold. Only in moments of death,
perhaps as we let go the life we had just lead,
we can finally experience it, providing better
ecstasy than any illumination. I had always for
something, I could never touch. Poetry cannot
constantly be split into dreams and reality.
For I have no-idea how the soul stays sane,
living in this duality. For me, it’s useless being
alive, if one is not the path of personal revelation,
whether that’s in love of thy soulmate, or just
the transcendence of one’s illumination. But the
saddest thing is, is not whether we can reach it
before death, it’s that those rare people who do,
get frowned upon, be called mad, and turned
away into exile, by the layman's-mundane ignorance.
Finally breathing through the wind, as my body
dives into the bath of Muses below, where I’m
blessed with martyrdom, which is the highest any
human can achieve. It isn’t really true, just because
you witnessed a person die for it. Even though
my life was a discovery of things, worth dying for
like my love for my soulmate.  
(Why be master, when one can be king?)
- Knowledge Variable

The only argument one does well,
it’s with one’s other identities. Fighting
for different causes, it’s all apart of
one giant  fellowship. Maybe by
accident that reality is only inside one’s
mind. I just wanted to go into romance
and nothing else. I’m a poetic peasant.
My inner-world worth more to me,
than another would know, romance
should not be in the realm of any poem
or spilling out of a poet’s tears. All
romance, beauty and love should live
only in the realm of experience.
(knowledge variable)

And perhaps to confuse the Angels, is to
let them know how long people stay in churches.
With the amount that derives from it. Without
a sound, they slide down and it’s so easy, to
forget, that any Angel could provide more than
being an awakening of knowing to be good
enough in the scene of romance. It’s been
one of a kind ride, along the bladed knife.
Where else could I see God, outside stained
images along the walls and in a magnitude
of collected books and dogma. A character
so stretched, it spawns different religious
fountains, that can encourage people, not only
to die, but to ****, or in simple tragic hands,
look what I got, could birth the most tear
dropping acts of humanity. (Cut those ivory
into skinny pieces and feed the poor. They’re
left questioning and saying: ‘I should of run
that way, or maybe this way.’ Those *******
will never know, cause I got away. I guess it’s
close to armageddon, more ******, harming
and joy, don’t you know, you can meet the devil
before death? It’s behind the curtains in plain
sight, the best kept secrets are well protected
and never to be proven. From the land that
never rains, everything they seem to do, cause
drama and you’ll never be right as you’re left
dead wrong, even when you’re long gone.
Dear Lord, bless my mystics in the in penitentiary,
Soldiers of the century.)

Do not weep, though in sweeping
dramatic features, in a concerto
fashion, veiled poetry, do not weep
for me. For I died and not to come
back to this earth, or this life. Nor
I’m I upset at this naturally great
act. I have gone into another Kingdom

So, I’ve stepped beyond the curtains,
seeing blood and wrath, now it’s time
to change my soul, transcendent
features, illumination. Wishing death
upon me, I stared at destiny and now
they wish to take my life away