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Years have just gone by,
What the hell is life, hey hi!
From rustling wind and steps to everest,
What remains now is a puzzled quest, isn't it?

Imagining the place to be down the busy lane,
Demeaning bask in the sun, dance in the rain.
Scrolling glittering pictures immersed in joy,
Craving of wannabes - a perfect ploy.

After climbing the top, after swimming till end,
Mr X went perplexed, just what to amend?
The shallowness within, the purpose of all,
Screamed the heaven, ROCK N ROLL - there is nothing at all, there is nothing at all !!
What Is Truth?

A mirror,
cracked in your own hands.
Each shard shows a different face —
and all of them are you.

You ask,
“Is this the truth?”
But the mirror never answers —
it only reflects
what you’re willing to see.



So keep asking.
Keep breaking mirrors.
Truth isn’t something you find —
it’s something you become.
Written as a Luziferian echo of Socratic doubt. Truth is not a destination, it’s a confrontation — a rebellion against illusions. This is for those who dare to break mirrors and question what they see
I sat,
spliff lit like a tiny sun in my hand,
and looked up.

To the stars,
to the void,
to the hush that hums behind silence.

And I asked —

In all of this,
this chaos and order,
this pain and pulse…

Am I not all that?

Wasn’t I born of stars?
A flicker from the great ignition,
dressed in skin,
asking questions fire once whispered to stone?

I’m not watching the universe —
I’m remembering it.
Living it.
I am it.

And you —
you reading this —
you are too.
Written while ****** and staring at the stars — a reminder that we’re not in the universe, we are the universe remembering itself. Nothing more, nothing less. Vazago thoughts.
If animals in the wild
must constantly be careful
then why should we
people around each other
ever feel secure?

L.C.
Truth needs no validation.

What is truth's aspiration?

I only know self-exploration.

Looking for the truth made invention.

I think I made it, but it's only inception.

We don't need creation; we need connection.

We committed for appreciation.

Sometimes it's good to have misconceptions.

This is an exception, not a conclusion.

It looks like everything's just an illusion.

Priests and principles taught me asceticism.

Now I realize it's self-deception.

It's not an inclination; it's a delusion.

We can't perceive this through perception
I wanna eat your *****
I wanna die tonight
I wanna get wasted
I wanna start a fight
I wanna go to jail
I wanna get paid
I wanna **** your mom
I want retards to get laid
**** politics
**** words
I want to *******
To pictures of worms
I want to see Diddy get ******
I wanna see Sara Palin ****
I wanna light a smoke with Obama
I want a **** that’s ******* huge
I wanna do drugs
I wanna go insane
I wanna chill with Charlie sheen
And do a bunch of *******
I wanna streak in Area 51
So aliens can grow my ****
I wanna spit off the Eiffel Tower
Drink until I’m ******* sick
But all I’ll ever do
Is write this stupid poem
Maybe if I drink enough
I’ll die on the way home
God might love you!
My mind seeks wisdom — not memory.
I don’t need to remember who I am.
Socrates walks beside me,
questioning every mask I wear.

Odin?
He grants strength and wisdom —
if he’s in the mood.
And Lucifer…
he’s my rebel with a cause,
a symbol of freedom unchained.

I kneel for no one.
Not even myself.
And to know thyself?
You must dare to be seen through the eyes of others
— without flinching.
We are not the same.
Look to your wrists,
Look to your ankles,
If what you search for are manacles.
You who claim I wear chains,
Who seek to shackle my spouse
Because you refuse to embrace your existence.
I am not bound,
For I am freedom.
And, in that way,
I grant you the same thing.
Use your free time wisely, for the rewards reaped are priceless.
I lit a joint
at the edge of reason,
Socrates pulled up a stool,
Lucifer leaned on the sun.

"Truth burns,"
Socrates muttered,
exhaling philosophy like smoke,
"but lies rot slower."

Lucifer grinned,
flicked ash into the void.
“They call me fallen,” he said,
“but at least I jumped.”

We passed the joint
between silence and thunder,
while the stars held their breath
and time forgot its name.

"I asked too many questions,"
I said.
Socrates winked.
"Good. Keep asking."

"And I loved too loud,"
Lucifer added.
"Good," I said.
"Keep burning."

We laughed until reality cracked,
and God peeked through
like a landlord with no keys.

Then I walked home,
lungs full of fire,
head full of questions,
heart still undefeated.
Who Am I?

If I can ask,
“Who am I?”
Then I am.
But not who.
Not yet.

The echo proves I breathe,
But not the name behind it.
The flame burns,
But does not say who lit it.

I am the question,
Not the answer.
The whisper before the voice.
The step before the road.

To know me
is to walk
without a map
and still arrive.
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