...ARGH!  Hence the title...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXV)


Spent, ere the fragile chance to what? avail,
Look how blue skies warm in dawn's welcome, whence
Don't roll a single word for aught intents
Across my tongue, jist see, and wonder, pale
As howling oer grey heavns' sheer lack, nor scale
Lo, any bit of this or that cuz sense
Drowned late on Monday night where visions dense
With oh, Victorian airs stole off wee bail.
Yes, when I've but a minute to bestir
My pencil for ah, which detail passed through?
I'm swooning sans a voice yet over her--
That girl whom lit'rature FORGOT, cuz ooh!
She was his mistress; won the world as twere
Because of that keen secret:  I've naught cue.

12Mar19a

To hold pages
In your hands
Is a world
Awakening

The bubbling brook
On the river's edge,
The fierce knight
Nearing the stone ledge

Mysticism
in the ink,
Lyricism
in the structure.

There is peace
In this,
Reading
Until life
is Colored,
Blurred,
and whole
Again

To Gatsby,
it is the green light shining across his bay that he could never seem to reach,
To the earth,
it is the sky that she could only touch as the horizon spreads out,
To the moon,
it is the sun that he continues to chase since the beginning of time, only to find her shinning for just a couple of seconds.
To me,
you.

In 333 series of an onslaught,
Between to fight and to be
caught.
To live or to die,
To be free or to lie.

Many people were being
insulted
By this so-called contradictory.
They smote us,
But no one succored.

Reason? To purloin this
masterpiece,
Not to make this world
at peace.
Carnage, oppression, and
slavery–
These are just one of their
hobbies.

But now, we've successfully
defeated the opponent–
Came from the other continent.
We, the Nouvelle Ancestry
Will fight against this
inhumanity.

Is it not a wonder
how your emotions
stitch these words together
Like a well knitted sweater

Is it not inspiring
how your sadness
strengthens the ones reading
But you're still bleeding

Poets should fall
in love with
poets
Leave the rest to
appreciate their
poems

Is it not beautiful
the way your mind
crafts and creates imagery
Marrying imagination and reality

Is it not intelligent
the way your words
coalesce together
Your journals, chests of treasure

Poets should fall
in love with
poets
Leave the rest to
appreciate their
poems

Is it not charming
that you aim to
be different than the indifferent
societies past and present

Is it not valorous
that you strive to
rebel with just a pen
Deep within the lion's den

Your emotions deep, your heart is true
They read your writing but fail to read you

I reaffirm,
Poets should fall
in love with
poets
And
Leave the rest to
appreciate their
poems

Ban me!

Burn me!

I, literature, can speak to you.


Love me!

Hate me!

I, art, can scream it, too.


Buy me!

Don't play me!

I, music, hide my meaning in shadows.


I'm not a martyr!

Don't hurt me!


...He, the artist, is sent to the gallows.

The end of learning is to know the minds of all Deities, the souls of masters of culture and secrets of everyone, living or dead. It invokes an oblique final outcast onto this world while being reassured at one’s own newly found Holiness.  The Devil is like God, expressed in various ways and forms, spoken softly and speaking loudly, vices too easy to commit and to make profit from. Wrestling inside, mixing emotions, it’s lonely and addictive, isolating all too easily, now I’m self-centered. Breathing in rustic sin. That is ancient and I’m experiencing it in modern times. I can only experience the present, a delusion of time and personal experience, I can admit in confessions or here in literary streams. I’m reluctant to change. Fragrance of the past, memories of smiles where I experienced moments of joy and I smiled in those moments, perhaps it’s reality’s fault. Over the course of my own life, pain became normal from it’s first infliction and pressed upon my very essence, I’m slightly bitter. In layman's minds, its easy to control, either by tone of speech. Softly killing them. We’re all slaves to an extent. My voice is unfragerant, unheard, no meaning in the eas of others, I can speak truths, say things to inspire, etc, etc, and etc. humanity is twice as pretty than Angels and Demons, to a value we have that they don’t, why the spiritual war? Being alive seems so miraculous blessing in itself. I follow no spiritual or religious fate. I am my own. But I’ve learnt, reading, witnessing. Though I resemble others in some way or form. I control myself. When it comes to it, each person's is talented enough to complicate their own life and often pick the easiest way to not only correct it but a strong desire to achieve their own wants. As the Devil is too ready to provide what they want now. The price to cheap. I never think long term. The Devil is happy when one is conformed to earthly standards and thinking. Never tell another person they’re evil or  wrong.  Over the souls of people spread the condor wings of colossal monsters and all manner of evil things prey upon the heart and soul and body of Man. Yet it may be in some far day the shadows shall fade and the Prince of Darkness be chained forever in his hell. And till then mankind can but stand up stoutly to the monsters in his own heart and without, and with the aid of God he may yet triumph. A relief of existing in itself, a burden most cannot part from and most doesn’t have the courage to reach out from something healthy or even fix themselves. Utopia here on earth, is often thought of and pursued by the creed of a select few, normally results in dystopia for others, like the common person, normally a Utopia by people is superficial and only for aesthetic veils. Soul conflicts constantly. Truth is, to do the work of the Devil is easy compared to God. Humility is a virtue of the heavenly, not arrogance. Are we the most superior beast on earth? No, not in strength and not in intelligence. It is very arrogant to assume that we are the most intelligent species when we keep repeating the same mistakes over and over again. In every person, there is a doer and a devil. With every passing days, the doer dies and a devil has to rise.  I have emotional attachment to my thoughts, parting from our personal doctrines is a terror I can’t part from, if I can control my heart, I can achieve vice. I only have one life. It’s been said truth will make people free, people’s mind and hearts cannot accept it, rendering emotional entrapment. Well, and keep in mind where those Masonic Mysteries came from in the first place.

Don’t speak too confidently
They’ll think you’re selfish
Don’t speak too affectionately
They’ll think you’re in love
And God forbid that you be in love
You might as well wear a scarlet A
Don’t be special
Don’t be the same
Don’t you dare cry someone’s name
In this volatile place

this is the city of faith
the city of doubt
discipline overrated
tough will is decisive
the decider, the dictator
in the grey hazy morning
try your best to make it
celebrate all the symbols
concedes mimicking rats
satisfy the prowling big cats
pick whatever that is left
in your accustomed route
and push through it
till the death of the sun
in each of your weary run.

all hail the lost souls,
see you in the city hall
at the end of the day.

the wilderness
in a soul that is scattered
all over this vast, empty universe
always challenged,
left without any apparent
guidance, nor any cult,
firm formulae
we are that only soul,
slow, without direction, colliding
all over this hazardous place
relying on our instinct
and complicated mind
the component of each particle
are intense non-binary
and it helps us to disrupt
the pattern of our non-existence,
and therefore, yes,
here we are.