Ball Jar with E&J; and coke,

        "What am I doing here?"





what am
i doing
here


"Am I talking to myself because there is no..."

...No..

No?

The Unhinged Mind
The Unhinged Mind
The Unhinged Mind

Never let another say
that you are not,
perfect.

Never allow a doubt
enter your heart that
you are not,
perfect.

For God
in his infinite
wisdom has
made you a
perfection.

Perfect;
always believe
you are perfect,
at heart.

"There is no other state as gracious as self-reflection."

      "...and no other state as vicious as the self."

Perfect

Motto,
  
            "Where consumers go to borrow in aid of a common good."

...because all interest is given to social causes directed to by the publicly-elected board of directors. A true good for all mankind whom wish to participate.

A real bank.

A real social institution.

That doesn't,


EXIST

Where will i be when this is over,
Will i be the whistle in the wind,
Or will i be the sound in the waves.

Will i become a supernova,
the scent in flowers recently trimmed?
Or just a carcass only found in graves?

Will i be the story parents will tell their children,
The memories which will make my friends sigh,
Or will i be the hurt in my lovers heart?

Will i be the soul on its way to heaven,
The subject of advice given to passers by,
Or the poetry written in parts?

Maybe i will be the wisdom taught by scholars,
The ray of hope for the oppressed,
Or the image of morality in spirituality;

I could be the mind healing sermons from preachers,
The light in the hearts of the depressed,
Or the restoration of love to humanity;

I hope that my name lives on,
I hope that it'll be said of me,
See all the good he has done;

I hope to be the reason why visionaries run,
I hope that a memorial day be set aside for me,
For my legacies which lives through ages to come.

An empty pub is the worst place to be,
In a city, Where even gods stay a bit longer every year,
Perhaps persuaded by the halcyon laughter of that half dressed street urchin,
Who has learnt to celebrate her comical existence,
In the pregnant underbelly of a false saint,
Who refuses to give birth to anything but naked poverty.

Small wonder the gods have never chosen to intervene in the city of joy,
After all its the fault of these urchins  who refuse to abandon their filthy smiles,
And have the audacity to peak through the walls that we annually paint,
With the victorious colours of human values.

But why do they peek,
Isn't their world filled with the unmatched profoundness of black and white photography?
Isn't their world the home to poetic muses and romantic poverty ?
Indeed, why do they peek ?
Before the label on the bottle in front of me,
Makes you judge the potency of what I utter,
Let me tell you why.

For them our world is a constant theatrical which has run different shows annually,
Yet the only complaint they have perhaps is that the genre of the shows,
Have somehow never changed.

Its always been the darkest of satires,
Like the running satire in which half our society,
Sitting safe within the beautiful walls ,
We built around our indomitable prosperity and culture ,
Indulges,
In the hysterical condemnation of a man,
Who wants to build a beautiful wall on a different continent .
To protect the same

You know, I don't speak urchin-tongue,
But I have always had the gift to read feelings I shouldn’t,
And something tells me the urchins have titled this theatrical,
“Moral *******”.

But that’s not all,
An empty pub is the worst place to be in a city which refuses to let you give up hope,
And gently reminds you with every drink
That even when the rest of the world is out there dancing,
To the drum beats of happy endings and ephemeral farewells,
There’s one place that will never close its doors on you.

The only thing is.
The place isn’t the home you never ended up building with her,
It’s just an empty pub.

And that is why an empty pub is the worst place to be.