The silhouettes are all the same
When formed by falling nuclear rain;
And that's the real catastrophe:
No difference between you and me.

Bones of ebony ivory drunk ate sing
Shaping the plates numbered nailed
Narrows nine hanging sneakers.
A fading necklace
Tying her laces.

Know yourself to the wells of valleys,
She sang, her voice was swelling
Understand yourself like the
Valleys leading wisely
To the eternal tides.

Cliffed-edge hanging dresses blowing
A flag below her waist over wheels
Of her brave weathered suitcase.
Crystal wing bends portraits of
Dinner plates in place.

Lush hair lady ebony-pale ivory sang Through the valleys dressed like
Her portraits of dining plates
Which weathered storms
She would have chased.

What is intelligence? Is knowing what to do when one hasn’t been taught?

Education often relays on history and a repetition of facts. Rendering people not creating new things or thoughts, even if education can be a bedrock as something one can derive from. Thinking without writing. Not all philosophers are dogmatic. Despite their sole education or speciality in a branch of philosophy. For most ideologies derive at a finality. Where actions can viewed as applied knowledge. But education itself can be a prevention from someone discovering themselves, laying a path for ignorance. Facts can prevent people from thinking for themselves. Every structure is to be thought of as a particular form of equilibrium, more or less stable within its restricted field and losing its stability on reaching the limits of the field. Language is often the key to any intelligence, from the narrative of the mind, to the spoken or written word to the receptive person. As philosophy just question or self-thinking. Reading is only partial. Documentaries only partial. Dialog is partial. Experience is everything. The present is the problem. No one ever use the present as a parent.

Everything is incomplete.

Exposing oneself to thinkers, Sarte, Plato, Chomsky are only a few. Ignorance will always plague humanity and be told throughout history, public or private.

Making the Bible public, gave the common people a reason to learn how to read. Accidentally birthing both interruption and criticism outside the professional network. Despite intentions, duality will exist. Marcus Aurelius put forth what we do now will echo eternity. The exertion of will over reality will provide a conflict in the domain of reality, affecting the person exerting, whether it’s good or bad, will be based upon the reception.

Every truth comes sooner or later. Long term and short term self always around.

The best place
for a Mind is in
Space.

There are secrets in the dark,
a duality of character, life isn’t a mystery,
I am not immune to flaws, mistakes, giving into
my own
fantasy. To push forward in my own
future. Is to accept my present now. Knowing my
own conception of the character I yearn for, I push
forward.
I shouldn’t have a default of burden, for simply breathing.
Under no obligations for reality
to provide
myself of dreams, though I owe it to myself.
Immortalized in pictures if I can achieve,
though it’s sad when no-one notices.
Life is still precious.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Her-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07GBCMWHS/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1540444410&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince

I sometimes take words that were first used by others
(I'm About to admit I'm a bit of a crook)
Re-hash and re-use them, and make my own covers-
Stealing little known lines from an eloquent book.

I've stolen from Shakespeare, yanked words off of Yeats,
And pilfered from Plato and Brown;
I've probably swiped stuff off all of the greats,
And many of zero renown.

There's more to be heard in the wise words of Wilde
Or took from a Tennyson line
Or the thinking out loud of an inquisitive child,
Than could spill forth from this pen of mine.

So if I've stolen from you, and perchance have offended,
(Yes- I'm about to steal Shakespeare again)
Just think but this, and all is mended;
Nothing original came from my pen.

Which means that, eventually, all that I've ever done
Will be lost in the shadows of time,
Skipped over, or lost, and simply outdone
By your works original shine.

there's an awful emptiness
in relatable content
when hundreds of people all
experience the same
loneliness and pain
but no one can do anything
about it, so instead they just
laugh, a fake laugh, and say
"yeah, I know how you feel!"
as if commiserating will somehow
ease the pain when someone dies
or something in your heart goes askew
but if every awful experience is common then the norm is misery
which is not a norm I'm willing to accept
or maybe relatable is an adjective
for anything relevant to the human experience
in which case, every moment, every feeling, every instance
is relatable and therefore dreadfully unoriginal
so-- I propose we change the meaning of the word itself
allow it to become more, a warning to break free
a protest to rise up against
the normative and to seek the original
to become inspired and to connect with others
in unique and meaningful ways
join me in reclaiming what is relatable and instead
seeking what is new

young people’s dreams are crushed
by the place they go where they are taught
to learn a cookie cutter way
and that their gifts are not gifts
in a world like this
we’re meant to be robots
creativity and originality is
simply dismissed

those that see beauty in everything feel the most discontent.
there are extreme emotions that one who is creative must process--
an unforced authenticity and tenacity to stay focused on a subject,
and to devote the same amount of attention to each entity, that you lose a sense of self and a sense of the world around you.

we use stress as a way of pushing us forward,
and only in moments of extreme stress does an amazing happening occur.
and for this, we are deemed odd, as a normal person thrives where they are most comfortable.

the originality that visionaries possess is exhausting, yet we admire it.
we allow for many things to flow in our minds without halt,
all notions and ideas taking up precedence, and this may be our greatest fault.

day break to sunset, my mind is racing non-stop, constantly,
to the point that sleep does nothing to quell the overthinking brain,
as my lucid dreams act as a force to keep me awake at night.
my mind is in a perpetual state of fantasy, sometimes during everyday life in bouts of daydreams,
imaging new situations and being unable to describe it all.

when I try to silence the thoughts that persistently flux through my mind,
my talents feel wasted during this time of artistic deprivation,
and only do I feel truly sound when I create new artworks for a few to discern.

sometimes I feel as though my mind feeds off on my depressive states,
as it takes the deepest of emotions to generate proufound art.
while I wish to be happy, I have a need to be in a bit of a sustained disarray.