The Moon has abandoned us
We are but blades of grass in a shielded blow
We are merely stones in a river's roll
One day we will be no longer.

We are desperate to cling to
some semblance of reason
but what good does the morrow bring worth breathing today for??
What good is so good that I should stay awake?
We are trying so hard to pretend that sharing our crazy is the least crazy thing
We cling so hard to this notion that we forget to look in the mirror while exchanging pictures of each other instead of reflecting on who we are,
But then, what's the point of reflecting on who we are when all we're capable of is our own life? Literally, the most powerful thing we can do is end ourselves. We aren't so special. We're just bodies with artificial flavors. No semblance of natural beauty; it's all been placed there by our self-serving pursuit of purpose. It's so much easier to believe we suffer for a reason. We don't.

A sad, frail calamity
A ship on endless ocean
Misery loves company, and that's why we've outlawed suicide, because really
You can't tell me you really believe we will be punished for ending our own durations, given to us without permissions,
You can choose your destiny as long as you stay alive. Death is not an option, until it is, and then what?

You're so glad that I'm expressing myself, but you wish i'd say some different things
So glad to see me creative again, but so against the things i say again and again and again and again and I just want somebody to make it all better like when you're 5 and don't know what existence ******* is but you get a cut on your finger and now you exist, but then your momma comes and sticks a band-aid on your finger and the pain of existence is gone. i want that feeling again.

But my mom's antibacterial powers have subsided as the ills have built resistances; they're now resisting penicillin and we don't own anything else right now. I open up my medicine cabinet, anyway. There's Tylenol. At least it'll help to ease the pain.

I take one. I take another. It isn't working. I take some more. Do these have a limit? I think they do. But I can't read at this point. I take another. I take another. I'd be counting but i can't do that, either. I keep taking the pills. I never stop. For all of eternity I take additional Tylenols, until a sad, frail calamity comes home from work and sees a sunken fleshy ship at the end of its ****** and final voyage.

The real subjectivity of life is overwhelming;
Prospective consumes our frontal cortex
But there is no escape from this vacuum seal.
We see the faces of our own delight,
The know how of the here and now,
But we are too blind to look past our own perspectives.
Even when we fathom the hearts of others,
Our understandings are predisposed  to our own Identity.
Objectivity is a fleeting notion of reality, of truth
and its as though the ground we hold so dearly
Is constantly fleeing from our grasp.
Today we call this individualism,
a disconnect between one's self and society.
But I so selfishly and foolishly believe
that this chasm stems from being lied to so often.
Am I lying to myself or am I being lied to I do no know,
but it is important to understand that it does not matter
that nothing matters, because everything exists in my field of view.
The only question remains: am I correct
Or has the devil made me a fool?
But  this does not confirm nihilism
only hints at its initial potential.
Yet there are common truths that are irrefutable
no matter who you are, real or not:
The reality is the here and now,
No matter what ghosts or demons there may be.
They affect the consciousness constantly
indifferently to whether or not they are fraudulent or true.
And my experiences are true, the emotions are radical,
and even if everyone I know is a figment and interpretation,
they still hold a grasp onto my withering heart.

I find a small comfort in those slow Sunday afternoons
when time moves like thick molasses,
the sun shines through my window
and fills me with warmth
when the universe feels so much bigger than me,
and you,
and all of this.
I can rest easy,
curl up into a blanket of safety,
knowing that nothing I do matters.
The things I choose to do or not do will not alter the course of the universe,
will not be significant beyond my own small corner of space and time.
The joy I find in the curl of my hair,
or the comfort of this chair,
matter only because I matter to me.

I write too often while thinking of you

It's late, everyone's asleep and my confidence is beginning to bate,
it feels like I've been awake for weeks straight, I can't extricate this state of distrait, everything is becoming harder to assimilate and I can barely differentiate reality from the reversed universe that my mind manipulates and creates,
My heart palpitates, my thoughts tumultuate and my lungs refuse to inflate under this weight as I begin to dissociate
What's great about my universe is that you can honestly relate,

Others understand in this mystic fantasy land,
There life isn't so bland, our existence was planned and best of all you and I roam hand in hand obeying your preferred god's demand,

There I'm not terrified that I will die with the afterlife unverified, the answers to my questions are clarified and my smile isn't forced or pried but instead a happiness that's justified,

There I have a perilous quest to distract me from the distress of the universe's careless emptiness, my feelings abide my behest and my mind doesn't remind me of my pointlessness,
Regardless I'd be happy nonetheless if I could leave all the rest just to retain your caress.

10-30-18

You're the condition to my malicious mission,
The vulnerable variables subject to my evil intention,
The unknowing lab rats of my malignant invention,
The objects of my intensely pestilent tension,

Stuck in your habitual greed
Stuck craving things you don't need
For this many will starve despite having plenty of seed,

In spite of your delusions of grandeur you're no more heaven worthy than an ant,
You want heaven? You want to ascend? Too bad, you can't,
So feel free to end your little chant

My message was tainted by the picture your pathetic minds painted,
You think I'm proud of what I created? Wow your egos are inflated,
little do you know you're actually hated,
and the afterlife is just the pain of existence perpetuated with all shades of happiness faded,

Slathered in sin
If there was a heaven none of you would make it in,
Your toxin will remain in your coffin with your rotting skin

Made weak and divided by barriers I provided
Dumb and broken by travesty I invited
Wrong by nature and I've ensured your inferiority won't be righted

Your happiness is permanently temporary,
Your minds are filled with false clarity and your creation wasn't the product of charity,

It was entertainment.

34 / Million-To-One Way Street, London [3]
(Emma Clark, BBC, BBC), German and Russian,
the main $22.2 billion home /
Netscape MD 3100 Axiata / Russia / 1683
at Ariel, George 2) 12,300 AB (Boston 600 to 12),
Italy, Japan, Guillaume Lucy 342 in Hawaii,
Russia, Hawaii, 21 BCE 1000 1000 May 12, 2001 |
/ i / 0 0 (9 0 6) 342 6, 16 and 16, four, | |    ||
Italy, Japan, Georgia, Russia) 342 (10) /
100,000, Krishna 34. In 2008,
the Consolidated Chancellor of the United States of America,
1004 London, 1000 4, 00, George,
4) Stacey Kentucky, 1683 Louisville CFR
(Boston, 2006) 2005 Nottingham 8
(100) 000 100, 000), Country (Boston,
600, 12) , Italy, Japan, Georgia, California,
34 / B] | (3-Emma Clark BBBCBBC),
Russia, Walter and George's Sham in the jungle
22 million (12) USA (44) Asia 3100 GJ /
Russia / Jordan Jordan 3300 163 16 16 22
John Stathy in 1683 12 (300) and Bruk
(Boston) 12600342 [Romanian Physician 8] |
(12) Belima (m) 2100 34 35 Like Valerie, |
Breed 4.4 / Ed Statsy (16) 23 Janavar, 2001|
(E) and 0:10 / produce (00 9 00 00.0 Greece
(10) (Armenia, Italy, Japan, Georgia, California),
USA (21) - German Ethics L074k23lk683
23 100 / fifth 12 minutes London, 2008 Fourth, |
Nood-oo Bumma (1), Hiroshi Brahma (62),
12 and her father 100 000 100 grams) KI:
Italy, Italy,
||War Pigs
Gen'rals gathered in their masses,
Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction,
Sorcerer of death's construction
In the fields the bodies burning,
As the war machine keeps turning
Death and hatred to mankind,
Poisoning their brainwashed minds
Oh Lord yeah
Politicians hide themselves away
They only started the war
Why should they go out to fight?
They leave that role for the poor, yeah
Time will tell on their power minds,
Making war just for fun
Treating people just like pawns in chess,
Wait 'till their judgement day comes, yeah
Now in darkness world stops turning,
Ashes where the bodies burning
No more War Pigs have the power,
Hand of God has struck the hour
Day of judgement, God is calling
On their knees the war pigs crawling,
Begging mercies for their sins
Satan, laughing, spreads his wings
Oh Lord yeah!

An empty boat glides through a tide-less sea
Echos of thunderous silence reminisces the rowdy sailors once on board
Without fear they sailed across the dark waters
Without the knowledge of forthcoming doom they kept the spirits high
Navigation impaired by the wrath of silence, their abominable gaiety and preposterous hopes were muted for eternity
Life drained, flesh rotted, bones crumbled to dust, and the boat was filled with peaceful death
Though without an inhabitant it still continues to drift towards a predesitned chaos
Its calm trail behind disrupted by an impatient tranquility
Its still path ahead disallows all animations with an unfluent time
Yet it moves forward

in a moment of childish insurrection,
          i folded a coin in half.
using the godly, hulking, still-sitting vice,
          i placed the quarter into its cold palms

with each turn of the rod,
          the coin bent.
it rotated, the crushing iron force,
          the vice had no emotion, only strength

the coin warped, fighting, a steel bone structure
          pushing up against the silent jaws.
i kept turning, changing that reflection of george washington
          into an irregular, uneven, foul little thing.


it had lost its value, the quarter
          going from the 'almost half a dollar' state
into nothing.
          a strange, bent, dismembered corpse

a serial ******, with the body sent to the state
          this coin, bent. it had no value
a few cents in nickel or copper, (at most)
          but it didn't have any value before;

before it lost its sole purpose,
          its existence taken in (george washington's) its eye.
other than the fact that we gave it what it held important
          its 'purpose', its 'value'

so much for that

For countless years I looked up to the moon,
But it was always out of my reach, forever behind the sky above me,
So I conveyed my wods in song, so my wishes might be reflected,
Reflected by it's pure light, which when it touches my skin feels cold and lonely at the same time, but also very welcoming and gentle,
My hopes and dreams went unheard by the time of new moon,
They fell on their way into the ocean and spilled into it,
A dying world full of sorrow, for how damaged it already became,
Like the ocean very deep inside, it will not end, not my body living in constant darkness concealed by my mind from the light I adored,
I would rather be swept away, be forgotten by anyone but the sea,
In the waving melody of the nights wind, my breath flows uninterrupted, I lose a part of myself once more, little by little,
Oh life! Why aren't you replacing me, what is the reason for this ?
After this confession of nihilism, shining beyond the scene,
The moon is rising.

~ Umi