guardian of the lucid heart
bequeaths her soul to Lucifer
in exchange for life of the Sun
to remain
savage is the shadow world
where deals are made for our very lives
in darkness whilst we sleep
and should the balance tip in favor
of greed and indifference
towards the mother of all that is light
then her soul shall have been vanquished
for naught
we are the last semblance of humanity
capable of this salvation
all life, all spirit, all vestiges of our species
shall be scattered to the winds of time
our origin lost forever

Forget what they ALL say
Forget origin common sense and mood and fashion,
Forget the human in you and unleash your unique inner species,
Light your heart with electricity from the skies
                                       wetness from the rain
                                        rough grains from the land
                                        And BE!

Just be, become endless,
Free!
Enjoy the sunlight and forget the smoke
They got thrown in your eyes.

Let's unite in our origin story,
From way back when in history,
It's all for humans, but not obligatory,
The spirit behind all faiths, you see,
It's up to you what you believe,
Our psyches touched by grace, prithee,
None of us are one trick ponies,
All to do with our origin story......

It takes more strength to make peace than war

By Arcassin Burnham

To find a perfect love in someone else's arms
And finding the courage to intrude,
Don't fall into a thorn bush , the sharpness of
It all might get into you,
Bleed the blood of a man who wants to know where the beauty originated and confirm the most vital information to finding bliss in these woods,
Not enough love in the world to help a sick
Person,
Or a cancer patient,
Or a dying family member,
The rose dies in the end anyway,
There's no use for the sad songs or pianos that play almost frequently when there's something bad happening,
It feeds on the eternal struggle,

don't get a cut.

She was the dream that never ended
Her garden was always well tended
Technicolor flowers and trees
Birds and bees.
But in the distance the shadowman danced
when the sun set in the sky
He spoke about the whereabouts of the moonchild
Their child together
A link they couldn’t sever
For they were divorced and divided
The shadows grew when the moonchild rose
The shadowman had the night, she had the day
But the shadowman kept the child from her
if the child chose it would be midnight forever
and the shadowman was manipulative and clever
His son he always spoilt with many gifts
but his son the moonchild sleeps and dreams of his mother
He will never hurt her or any other.
But sometimes on an eclipse
the moonchild steals the suns light
and his father and mother fight
But he always gives it back.
because the light of the Sun is blinding to the moonchild
and he has to let it go
So the sun will again glow.

You keep shaking at the branches
just like money grows on trees.
I been dealing in these cheap clichés
just like they'll help me leave someday.
And--easy! Easy! Easy.--
We can't let 'em hear us scheming
at the bottom of their hill
while their victories are streaming.

I can still remember days
when sane folks always laid bets on us.
With our mortarboards tilted all smart
and God left sorting filters,
we tilted, tipped all windmills
and we smoked through all opponents.

You'll tell me I once loved you.
I'll reply that, once, I could.
And we'll keep on telling stories
'til our voices clear the woods
and drift on up their hill
and through their windows
to their ears.

I'll tell you you were beautiful.
You were! I ******* swear!
So tell me I was beautiful
and that we can repair
this broken clumsy story
that ****** us all up and brought us here.

Up there atop their hill,
those thieving ******* sip their wine,
while below them, our white facepaint runs.
We plan ahead for better times.

I keep shaking at the branches
as if friendship grows on trees.
Just as though they might accept me,
when the dollars fall with Autumn leaves.
And you been dealing hard in hollow hopes
and flimsy dreams.

But I still think you're beautiful.
So tell me that I'm beautiful.
And then let's clip their flimsy wings.

Those ******* 'crost the town
are eating **** and grinning.
               Cackling,
               orgasming,
while counting out their winnings.

But their music plays too loud
and soon their eardrums will be bleeding.
If they can't hear us breathing, babe,
they'll never hear us scheming.

The first attempt ended in nothingness. Ribbons flowed from the belly of mother hollow, and though they grasped at their own absence, their fingers broke like brittle leaves, returning to the mother’s flesh.
This was the birth of change.
The second attempt ended in madness. Shadows rose out of the nothingness in waves and cascaded into pools of being, but when being opened its eyes and saw its image, it let out a threshing scream.
This was the birth of separation.
The third attempt ended in lack. Fire poured from the cosmic maw and baked earth to blood; flesh gorged on itself, and pale figures gripped the edges of rivers, gaping at one another, unable to speak.
This was the birth of despair.
The last attempt ended in man; and nothing birthed after it.


Appended File

Source states the archaeologist was investigating the Mariana Trench. Strangely, he began displaying symptoms of decompression sickness on the descent. His state worsened, but, due to his insistence, the pilot continued the mission. The archaeologist began recounting, in “muddled and broken speech”, accounts of his wife and children. In interviews conducted after the incident, colleagues claim to have never met any persons matching such descriptions. Soon after, the archaeologist collapsed. The pilot recounts, in a shaken tone, “By all means he was out. Like—I called to him, you know.” When asked why he did not administer first aid, the pilot replied “I couldn’t st—he was out cold, I ******* swear. I didn’t notice it at first, moving my hand over his face, you know—staring into space. I grabbed the kit, turned back, and that’s when it hit me. His eyes weren’t glazed, they were fixed on me. Tracking me. Like—those weren’t his eyes, anymore.” When asked to expand on this, the pilot broke down and had to be escorted from the room. The archaeologist has yet to awaken from his coma. It should be noted his eyes are closed.

— 37, Male. Cairo, Egypt.

What do we do?Our spark of life meant for...nothing?
What do we truly do?
The spark of life for...nothing?
I often ask myself
what were my origins for?
My origins fall on an early spring morning.
Spawn of a ****,
I was born to the world.
They often tell me I was always meant to be.
I was a perfect baby
I never cried, and always behaved.
I look at pictures of me.
I was so happy
I never knew what pain was, or what abuse felt like.
It was me and my mom.
I was the light in her life,
and she was mine.
I often see my picture.
The little boy I was.
It all changed though.
Happiness never lasts.
My mother married,
I died.
This person that stepped in
my "dad"
sent me to hell and back.
He never understood
my meaning of life.
The **** he's done,
ruins my origins.
Instead of talking about a happy life,
I am forced to tell my childhood as abuse.
I will never know the life of a boy scout.
wasn't allowed
I will never know summer camp
wasn't allowed
I will never know what it is like to go to a friends house and stay with them for the weekend
wasn't allowed
Though I show you my smile,
it screams pain that echos through my body.
My origins are not worthy of speech.
My origins
*have been corrupted