I write my paradise
While my soul is in demise
I write to escape
In words I take new shape.

In you I had an ally
Until against me you planned a rally
For order and control
It was all just for show.

I loved and still do
All the good I saw in you
And when the moon is anew
I'll pray I never met you.

Only constant is death;
Life is excitement and upheaval.
Why do men strive towards
Unmoving statues?
Towards paradise
With its ever-blooming
Orchards?
*** is warm,
But doesn’t remain warm
Perpetually.
The serpent,
Moulding,
Inconstant,
Is preferred over the
Constantly blooming flowers.
Sunlight, moonlight;
Fiery apparitions
Dancing in the desert.
Here she comes,
Riding on her
Amorphous, lustful cloud.

We practice serenity
with each day that we receive.
No search for amenity
just live off of what we believe.
No shortness of want or need,
look how easily we breathe.

That’s where the old snake stopped me
from attempting to grab the fruit.
There was endless crop to see
there was infinite loot.
We’re living in paradise lost.
We’re living in paradise lost,
and I don’t ever want to be found.

No much more to gain,
we shower within the rain.
Maybe I could stop this train
maybe you could stop the pain.
We have no short of grain
we have no hate or bane.
Rocky Mountains or flat plain,
delusional but still sane.

That’s where the old snake stopped me,
and told me that I need not pick.
The fruit was freely dropping,
raining down so strong and quick.
We’re living in paradise lost,
with nothing bringing us down.
We’re living in paradise lost,
and I don’t ever want to be found.

Tiptoe through tulips aching big a toe
That breaks for every bee and blade of grass.
Who knows the mower hates to hear the mow,
Nightmare of ugly noise that passes gas.
Dilly and dally me through dandy kittens
Roaring like lions loathe to take an oath.
The present age is hot with extra mittens.
Organic earth is earth and heaven both.
Inhale the floral undergrowth of germs
That scent the summer's ***** flowerbirds,
Albeit worms are slimy snotty squirms
Delicious raw with ketchup made from turds.
Zephyr a sweetwind, winter wind with ice,
Earth is a mankind heaven paradise.

to love me like how you love your
cheap hmart wine, to sentimentally sip
at me until you are tipsy and having a
good time; and if i have nothing more to
give, set my empty self on a distant shelf—
forever is a paradise, even if to only ever
hear your laughter from the sidelines

People dream and in that dream lives a paradise, a place of escape from the world you live in now, a place where dreams come true.

Always afraid of what comes next, your mind creates a place full of creations, imagination and peace, and slowly you lose yourself and who you thought you were to this little paradise of escape.

Running and running, always moving, from one imaginative place to another, stories, poems, songs and art, all types of created paradises and all types of reality fading.

Around it goes, slowly but surely, forming a world or two in my head, losing that light that flickers slightly as my mind wanders, creating, imagining a world full of possibilities and people I wish to be.

Dying more and more on the inside, dying more and more to the depths of the darkness, I created due to my mind, full of paradises, full of possibilities, full of dreams I can't possibly reach.

Imagination slowly reaches its peak, living in my head and yet yielding in retreat, in reality, seeing what could be, but never really living it, too afraid to live as slowly I descend, the more I stay on this paradise of the end.

Sickening to hear this, but knowing it's the truth, sometimes a paradise isn't the way to choose, because this ideal of a perfect world for me, or a perfect story I can create, lessens my value of who I really am, where it should matter, back in reality.

Exiting this dreamlike state, slowly waking as I ache, reaching out for a hand to pull me up, up from this paradise of pure bliss and lost, causing my soul to stay right there, while I choose to get out of there, stuck forever in this state, this state of imperfections and surrealism, as I slowly descend into the madness to come, because I took a step on this paradise I created to escape the real me.

Progress is the storm

that has risen at the gates --


of Eden's garden.