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evolove Nov 2021
Travis scotts concert was 100% a satanic soul harvest. He sent those souls to another dimension.
Think I'm stretching? READ ALL THE WAY THROUGH.
First off. He called his event a "festival".  The definition of a festival is a feast. Did you see a large amount of food?
Or did you see a feast of souls?
His stage was the symbol for alchemy.  The egyptian ankh. The Egyptian ankh has to do with life. Because the wealthy know when you die and when you are born, you create a ripple in time and space for your soul to come and go. The best way to describe it is like a pool. Imagine you are about to jump into your local swimming pool. The water will break your entry and you will safely hit the bottom. Now. Imagine there is a person at every single part of the edge and you all jump in at the same time. Now you've got a problem. Soul harvesting is the same way. When you die your soul creates a ripple and it can safely leave. But. When you have a bunch of people dying in the same spot the spiritual realm becomes stressed in that location due to the high amounts of energy our souls resonate as they are leaving and entering the in between of this realm and other dimensions.  Therefore they have created machines that have tapped into the in between to ****** your soul. Who gets it and where it goes?  Other things are possible as well. Like the exchange of a good soul for whatevers on the other side?. Have you ever heard of cern? The large hydron collider. It's the largest machine in the world. This is NOT knew technology. The Mayan indians knew about this. The egyptians knew about this. THIS IS WITCHCRAFT AT THE HIGHEST DEGREE.
Let me break it down.
Travis Scott is a WITCH. The microphone is his wand. He is a (M.C.) (Master of ceremonies).  
With his wand he uses his voice (frequency) to help bring in the energy needed to open the portal. He brings a crowd of 50 to 70 thousand people who are generating IMMENSE amounts of energy into a low vibration. Love is the highest. Aggression is the lowest.
Then the design of his stage along with the lights become the sigil to help open the portal. Remember his stage was the symbol for alchemy?
YOU can't see the portal. You just see a fancy light show.
But those who are dying and their souls are separating from their bodies can.
The only way a living person MAY see through the portal is if they had taken an Elixir like Ayahuasca.
Do you ever wonder why all these "rappers" want to date the highest ranking Arminian witch family Kardashians?
Could it be because they are witches?

They do these kind of rituals behind closed doors all the time. What you saw was them coming out in the open.
The goal for you is to pass on and move to a higher dimension. You are drawn to the heavens because that's where you came from.
When you start gaining wealth, you start the search for immortality. Wealth is a drug that most refuse to part with.  So this is where satanism comes in. There's a theory of  reincarnation if you can create enough negative energy for yourself, you can weigh your soul back down. This is where the technology of transferring your consciousness back into another avatar has its place.
You can see why we are at a cross roads of transhumanism and luciferienism.
Some believe the elites WERE once humans and during the days of Atlantis that changed. Their technology hit a point they no longer needed human bodies. And they became the pinnacle of Transhuman. But no longer human. Something else. Maybe this is what "sanat kumara" is? A.K.A. Satan.
Truth. Facts travis scott Hollywood
FrannyFoo May 2020
You are not like the rain
You never teased my skin
Planting ideas in my head
That grew roots in my heart
The acid Dripping from your tongue,
You burnt me.

The storm raged

The waters haven't calmed since.
I felt love, I Feel love, I bleed hurt
And long for a tsunami
To sweep me from this nightmare.
Come back
Break my skin
Show me what it feels like to love again.
Let me dance in the toxicity
And bathe in the poison
Your scent
Your fumes
A fresh rain falls
I'm drawn back in

Let me drown
Lucas Scott Mar 2020
I want to be
   your tattoo
              skin deep and meaningful
          a complicated design
                     of interconnecting lines
      forming an image
a symbol
                       expressing an intimate
          part of

I want to be
        what you need
passionate red
        for a setting sunset
calming blue
        for a starry night
invigorating yellow
        for a vibrant sunflower
darkest black
        for the wisest quote
always moving with you
        when you dance
                when you laugh
                        when you cry

But if regret comes to be

I want to be
                        your mistake
                        covered up
                        a hidden memoir
             of your past
                                           guiding your future
                          an ink-stained lesson
                          lingering curse
                     but I will still be
          part of
Lucas Scott Feb 2020
Romance is a sweaty assembly line
With shop talk and flying metal shards
Cracked safety glasses and warning signs
Hot oil, bolts and screws, and heat guards

Romance is 12-hour long night shifts
After 8 hours of class and study
Stuck in a warehouse with men on forklifts
And a redhead too shy to talk to me

Romance is a bold negotiation
Bargaining for his job next to her
A week of cleaning his workstation
A week to get her interest to spur

Romance is a stupid expression
A flower, chocolates and teddy bear
In front of the guys, a bad decision
Her running away, face as red as her hair

Romance is a terrible movie
She insisted I watch at her place
A film - to this day - I’ve yet to see
And, yet, its mention still makes my heart race

Romance is losing yourself as you touch
Fingers running softly through her long hair
And feeling lucky she wants you so much
Even after an ill-timed teddy bear
Lucas Scott Feb 2020
4 am
Stumbling through the dark
Wife needs the sleep
Youngest daughter’s crying
A blind diaper change
Warming a bottle and falling on the couch
Now 2-year-old’s crying on my hip
Burp then back to the cradle
Other daughter tucked in
Suit tie briefcase keys
45-minute commute
Bus duty for middle schooler
Fights broken up graffiti foiled
90 students in 6 periods
Grading lecturing consoling mediating
After-school program
Organizing monitoring guiding
Long drive back
Screaming kids tired wife
Laundry dinner dishes
Drive to part-time job
Inventory customers cleaning up-selling
Meeting with manager
Numbers are down you might get fired
Anxious anxious anxious anxious
Clock out drive to class
Parking running looking at watch
5 minutes late
Where were you prof says
The test has already started
Scantron answer sheet
Only a pen in my pocket
Unbelievable he says
With no pencil I have to fail you
Consider this a lesson
You need to grow up
This is the real world
I consider all my poems rough drafts.  This is very experimental for me.  Any constructive feedback would be appreciated :)
Lucas Scott Jan 2020
Remember how we’d sneak out of the house?
We hated the yelling and the crying
Scrunched shoulders, tiptoeing off the porch
They never noticed we weren’t there

Such a dusty neighborhood
No lines on the roads
Tar-filled cracks hot and sticky to the touch
Protruding grass a cooling reprieve

We’d push each other and kick at our feet
Toss pebbles at stop signs
And walk on that broken wooden gate
Outstretched arms to keep balance

We had a ritual before bugging Grandma
Through her side yard, to the levy
Climbing the hill in our green-black stained sneakers
Rolling down in an itchy flurry

And at the end of our dizzying tumble
Stood that venerable well
Its stony visage stoic against the unkempt field
The surrounding shoe-imprinted mud

Reaching into our pockets, we’d pull out our coins
The change from our school lunches
The money we should “save,” we were told
But, instead, we threw it into that well

The well was dark, but I could hear the PLOP
I’d imagine its decent; swaying through lingering blue
Twirling and flipping, creating small whirlpools
Then smacking the bottom with a resounding THUD

Of course, we’d make our wish
Never spoken, or else it wouldn’t come true
You’d knowingly smile at me
Your eyes filled with tears

I went back to that old well…

I followed our old path, down that cracked road
Through Grandma’s abandoned side yard
Up and over the levy; it was such a quick trip
And there in the field was our old well

Mud dried, the weather-beaten stones crumbling
Tattered rope choked a bucket-less handle
Insects oozed through rotting wood
What had happened to our change?

I peeked inside that dark, empty well
And, there, at the bottom, rested our coins
No blues, no twirling, no whirlpools
Just our lunch money entombed with dirt
Lucas Scott Jan 2020

I celebrate my pants, and sing my pants,
And what I wear you shall wear,
For every thread belonging to me as good belongs to you.


I saw the best pants of my generation destroyed by madness, bleaching faded skinny,
dragging themselves through the crowded malls at noon looking for the perfect selfie,
man-bunned hipsters burning for the contemporary digital connection to the social dynamo in the machinery of online relevance


Let us go Pants, you and I,
With evening wash spread out against the sky
Like a ghost dancing upon the breeze;
Let us go, through certain half-full baskets,
The smelly caskets
Of unwashed trousers from one-week neglected hampers.


Something there is that doesn't love my pants,
That sends the frayed-torn-cuffs under it,
And spills my muffin top in the sun;
And makes love handles even two can hold to love.


I have stolen
the pants
that were in
the dressing room

and which
you were probably
for a party

Forgive me
they were comfy
so soft
and so stylish


Because I could not fit my Pants –
I kindly split the Seam –
The Problem is quite obvious –
I need some stronger Jeans.


The patterns on your pants   
Could make a designer cry;   
But I hung on to your stance:   
Plaid boldly with tie-dye.


Call the maker of big pants,
The fabulous one, and bid him zip
In seamstress studs sumptuous sewing.


What happens to lost pants?

      Do they stiffen up
      like paper as it dries?
      Or do they balloon up —
      and into the sky rise?


I bought some tremendous pants
and held them beside the cart
half off the hanger, with the hook
fast in the belt loop around the waist.
There was no fight.
No one had fought at all.
They hung a defeated weight,
overlooked and spurned.
Lucas Scott Jan 2020
Today we mourn the death of a clown. We adorn our fanciest makeup and brightest wigs.
Our bowties spin and our rubber noses squeak, and the horns’ honks are very loud.

From our tiny cars, we tumble and slip and dance and fall over our floppy shoes.
We glide on banana peels and crash into whip-laden coconut cream pies.

We wrestle to our seats. Pushing, shoving, eye-poking, seltzer spraying.
Loud farts echo as whoopee cushions compress beneath our butts.

The priest takes the alter, but a bull charges and chases him away.
Replaced with a mime, the service finally begins.

Pulling and pulling and pulling and pulling
Handkerchiefs from our sleeves

We wipe each other’s tears
And flip over the casket

So we can say
Lucas Scott Jan 2020
My wife holds my hand tightly as we enter the tiny church
The harsh odor of wet wool, cotton and dust fills the foyer
The pews are full.  The signature book thick with names
Sifting through, we find a seat as the dirge comes to a close

The preacher is loud and sweaty and a distant cousin, I’m told
His mud-brown suit and tie clash against the stage’s ornate bouquets
He assures us there’s a heaven and that my grandfather was a good man
His thick southern draw a slow assault; the eulogy, a battleground

Stories are shared, and they are sweet. He paints a righteous man
Hands are raised, amens shouted. A relative grips me hard and weeps
In Jesus name, hallelujah, the lord giveth; the lord taketh away
Bow your head in prayer, he says. Let us remember our brother

And I remember. Images enter my head, and I clench my teeth
The drunken fights with grandma, the hammer used to defend herself
The scar on his palm, the knife mom drove through his calloused hand
The dark coat closet, the sound of the lock his children heard, the cries

The line to his casket is long. The sobs overpowering the morose hymn
His children are lined next to him. My grandmother is holding his hand
I lean in to see him one last time.  His red nose has vanished
He smells of embalming fluid, and his shirt is wet with tears
Lucas Scott Jan 2020
Here you are, reading some book
When you should be out there
Playing football and eating *****

We got work to do
You gotta move those shingles
I gotta hammer those nails
Don’t carry so much up the ladder at once
You’ll wreck your back and slow me down
I don’t want to be stuck here with you all day

There you are, writing again
You look so different with a pen in your hand
Without packs of shingles on your shoulders

I don’t understand why you do that
You’re supposed to be a baseball star
You’re supposed to win, make me proud
You’re supposed to hate the *******
Crack jokes and laugh at the queers
I just want to be proud of you

Anyway, the last teardown left a huge mess
Put down that pen, grab that pick, and get in my truck
These shingles ain’t moving themselves
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