Time: with its relentless grasp tightening around me, like the
unyielding force of gravity — anchors me in place. I aspire to
embrace aging with grace. I sense the encroachment of greys;
those emerging silver strands blend into the horizon of new days.

Isn’t life so strange; contradiction: we know of it like a friend, even
while it can turn adversarial until the end. Shifting seamlessly
between ally and adversary, these moments of joy and sorrow;
exalting in its beauty even as it envelops us in its enigmatic embrace?

So profound in depth and meaning, a symphony of paradoxes
harmonizing into the melody of our journey. I only aspire to embrace
aging with grace, oh what a shame — we move forward, embracing
the uncertainty with grace, as time continues its ceaseless march.
A steadfast friend from the break of day, an adversary until the sun
sets.

Words often said without though,
Each phrase chosen, a message meant.
From laughter's joy to sorrow's plea,
We never speak without a reason be.  

In silence or song, truth’s melody lies,
Every utterance carries intent that justifies.
So heed the echoes in all that we say—
Nothing is spoken without purpose's sway.

So hard to come by
Unless you know where to look
Have you found that place?

If it's true,
and you know it is,

sister, money don't grow,
on the tree of life, oh, no,

toil and pain and sorrow,
those grow,
on the tree of life, outside

these walls of mud faith bakes,
and builds heroic as formal evidence,
by grace alone, the blessing on America,

Oi, where Chickasaw whole life awaken dance
hey hey yahweh, same dance same sacred idea

We got StarLink in Chad,
oh, when can we read the heresies
personal savior level lucky prayer
online, free from press, amen.

All amenable Kilroy, was  here.
We pulledhisassoffhisthrone
with thunder words,
and other nonsense
We learned
to read, and write
shocking truths no slave should know,
money, has all kindsaansworn NDAs
there's the tie, the business
religion, re attaching
ligamental forces,
pending dooms
used
to make the peasants pay
for joy,
ceremony
of the veterans, paid
with joy,
ai, we die…
all we celebrate,
and all we worship Ares,
and Elon's trip to Mars, and Hermes,

tricking me
into telling a preacher story,
truer or not, it is too soon
to say, stories
sometimes hook up
with old characters,

brought
to mind using ceremonial reminders,
put on your respected veteran medal
of wit,
let this mind be
in you, this military mind, eh
strut your stuff, you patriotic consciousnesses.

A bubble
of belief engulfed the big parade,
the ompa blat left behind.

We blinked. They won.

I came away with an alienated mind,
to this day, I am happy to say,
that has made the difference,
I lived, while others just died.

Tomorrow comes too soon — I am the taste of noon,
a mirror reflecting another's brilliance; I am just a moon.

In
A world that seeks to mould me into a mere tool, yet my
truest desire is to be a spoon, nourishing those who crave
love; those ensnared in a wicked life of their own doom
Still, all I aspire to achieve feels so insufficient,

For
Tomorrow comes too soon — I am the inquisitive shadow
lingering in a room. I've been transformed into a broom,
sweeping away many of my ideas— for all the countless
moments they appear in their eyes as something never close
to good

As
All the creativity I possess comes with the weight of having
so much to prove; I've stumbled many times, leaving me to
question the true fit of my shoes. Life wears me down by
day’s end, and the cycle begins anew.

Always
Tomorrow comes too soon.

This is how I process
My thoughts
My feelings
My ideas
My beliefs
My actions
My trauma
Everything
So if you find not what you seek
I'm sorry
It's just how I think

Silence our opinions
Popularity is the main currency
Freedom of thought is a unfulfilled vacany
Everybody takes offense, a generation which avoids harsh truths. Soft to the core, but yet every tattooed punk is apparently hard-core. You fear criticism but  you are the worst hypocrite.
Rome burns while cats want to be dogs while owls yearn to be eagle's.  
Mellininated and proud. Afro centric is my state of mind. Black supremacy till I'm ashes.  ..... Black man you are own your own.✊️

There are two kinds of creatures in this life;

the most attractive creature, is a man mindful of your feelings:
considerate of your emotions, making you feel truly valued,
and respected— who listens attentively to your thoughts,
and concerns but also responds with genuine care, and
understanding.

And the dumbest creature, is a man who instead thinks
with his second brain: not much thought needed there.

Dreaming in colour; but I can't help thinking
in black and white — the anxieties that weigh heavily
on my plate, it's no wonder I occasionally savour
their bitter taste. Why should I rely solely on fate,
when it starts to feel a bit devoid of faith?

And some might argue I let them down, but
what if that low point was my decision to elevate
others — would you still have faith in me, or is
it simply your own fate that keeps me anchored
in this low place?

I will make films when I grow up. I will descend to madness when I grow up. I will give up when I grow up. I will travel the world when I grow up. I will call you when I grow up. I will fall in love when I grow up. I will create art when I grow up. I will run away to the woods when I grow up. I will cry when I grow up. All humanity has is art and grief. Don't let the art die or the grief perish. Underneath the sky of a thousand stars, we have made a home for ourselves. Poetry and music sustain our wounded souls. Don't let them die a million deaths like innocent men and women killed by innocent men and women. In the blank space of the universe, we all are equal. The hated and the hater are alike in status, imprisoned by false cages of philosophy, a quest long drawn since ancient times, searching for it in urban cityscapes. Cities where nobody cares to know your name, where we are trampled by the crowds. This is the home we have made for ourselves underneath the blanket of a thousand stars. There is no meaning in suffering. We suffer because we search for meaning. All our lives we try to get out of the prison only to be stuck in another prison. In between, moments of light. In between chaos, moments of calm. In between, moments of creation. Humans are art and yet so ugly. Humans are stardust yet their face belongs in the mud. Humans are so capable but so ruthless. Cities where freedom exists in the air. Houses side by side. Autumn shades. Haunted blues. Nostalgia. Music of the soul. What are we? What have we become? A million memories have created my body. A million imprints on my body. Run boy, run to the land of free. Run to the heavens for you have been lied to for your entire life. A life devoid of passion is meaningless. And passion must not be searched in empty spaces of human settlements rather the art our generations have left and will leave for all to see. Art is all that we have as a reflection of ourselves. Art is the proof that we existed and so did our restless hearts and passions. So many of us on this planet we call our home yet we still don't know the meaning of beauty, love or being human. So distracted we have become. Look for passion within. When you try to end your life, your suffering will hold you back. You hate your life yet it will save you. There are giant trees reaching to the sky and barren deserts filled with solitude and galaxies beyond comprehension and mountain peaks we haven't reached. The world is our oyster. It is us. It is the universe breathing in different forms. You are the spirit of the river, the resilience of the mountain and the branch of the tree. All life is connected. All life is suffering. Yet this suffering I enjoy. All that happens in life is life. All grief and love and passion and madness and anger and rage and excitement are akin to the throbbing ocean waves, the thunderstorm painting the sky, the mountain snow being melted. You and me, humanity and art are but one spirit, lost in space trying to reach out to each other, trying to find love in chaos, beauty in ugliness, peace in destruction. War is what gives me the most pain. To **** your own species is foolishness. The pain that she feels, I feel and that's why I must stand up for my fellow human beings. When a tree is uprooted from its home, I feel it's pain. The answer is to feel the suffering. Don't run away from it. Feel the passion. Feel the pain. Feel the magic. You and me, humanity and art are but one spirit, lost in space trying to reach out to each other, trying to love all that is and all that isn't.