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At death, stops a choking anguish,
paying for a life lived and not all
the wrongs I’ve done. Will my own
soul go into exile? On the other side
of the vast distance between those
on Earth and myself. Stepping over
decaying petals, will I go somewhere
else? Someone tell that I am, isn’t
God just another cop, willing to pull
the trigger back, when I don’t go
pop? Step no nearer to me. There’s
a storm coming. Plots and schemes.
In constant circles, around me.
They smile at me and frown behind me.
Secrets in plain sight, until I see them
and secrets no-more.
My soul, sung by a tenor.
Those who can hear, vanished
into thin air, by spooks or by
social shunning and wept.
Many can’t hear, few ever do,
mystics are the ones who
stay to listen to singing tenor.
Mystic, I’ve self-produced a
supplication for life on Earth.  
And in can disturb the cosmic
alignment between the layman's
soul and mind. Got one love
for my true mystics.
There’s a fountain of experience
in waiting reality, though it smirks.
It is in waiting to be lived. Life it
in a relentless form. Those
who do not drink from the fountain,
will die, thirsting after the bitterness
of lingering ignorance. Yielding
trends, laughing-face at history,
the normality of it-all. Tempting
and easy - isn’t it?
(In dedication to my brethren Bones,
writing poetry again, I’m free again.
The sun may rise in the east,
It sets in the west. Babylon don’t test.
Rough and ready, bourgeois bow
your head in shame. Militant and ready
us outlaws are.mysticism took over
my soul and now I’m force to ride,
hard to **** when I’m unloading my AK.
Guess I wasn’t tripping, when I saw
them for the second time rolling by.
I wish they’ll do it in my sleep.And it’s
time to be a ghost.)
In truth, little amount is from the people
who tend to create something from
their own being, you know, actually
being someone - or most do nothing
in isolation, away from prying eyes.
But always the collective is the first
to blame. You know, talk about disease,
ignorance is so suffocating, in every way.
It turns somemany blind. The sobering truth,
if you live, you’re apart of the system.
In some measurable way. By breathing
you express being alive and by acting,
it’s a culture, fashion, religious, law -lawless
or social expression. And everyone can
see. There’s is nothing wrong to success.
That’s measurable as-well. You know,
quantity of friends, high opinion,
rising ladders in the corporate world
or being the one bringing them down.
And in reality, success generally comes
someone else’s misery. At the peak of
it all, stars shine bright, until other than
you all and get ignore. As anything goes.
Those who never act on desire
Restrained in their love
Holding your hand
Maybe it’s like,
Holding infinity in eternal love
And it’s a system I’m enslaved in
Oh poetry, I’ve separated Heaven and earth, in one thought.
Mysticism itself, no-need to be a institutionalization, for
I own my body as my soul becomes one. The ones in the
Shadows of dropped curtains, shape everything over this
earth as they rest in the betweens, some call it boid as
the catholics call it ‘purtogray.’ For me it is only a place
where the mind can enlightened. Awakened illuminati.
Muse, in bright lashes and painted
nails, I confront the conforming
social trends and I laughed.
I was taken by force to exile.
I’m not mad at you, it’s done in
the dark. They painted my body
in red, because I stumbled behind
the curtains. Some things are
Best left unsaid, even if, most
of the population are left
to look the same. I knew they
had to leave me there.
Smoke that Bombay
Poems, somehow, poetic words
have none the value for what
I feel in experience, nor in
wondering in thoughts, even if
the thoughts and emotions.
Dancing with thy soul.
Experience awakening than die.
(They used to tell me,
the devil is the crazy one.
Told he hated me.
Then I got a little older
and learnt they are the crazy
ones. There’s nothing I
can say or do to change
They are. Red turns into
orange after a washes.
But that’s normal? Isn’t it
Norman? Out of our med’s
and out of minds, bring in
the world.) Why I say these things
cause people's scream, keep
creeping in my dreams.
Lover, why I’m I afraid to die?
I belong to you. Knowing you,
a life worth living, because
I made something of myself.
In the process of it all. I had
become the man you’ve always
wanted and in you, a character
so exceedingly overwhelming
of true beauty, touching holiness,
you ended up saving me.
Smile for me now.
When it comes time to die,
I’ll render thoughts of you.
And take comfort and ease,
I’ll wait for you there, in other
kingdoms, where those brave
enough to go with their soulmate
in durations of horrifying true
and perfect love.
Than can people bloom.
Smile for me, again and again.
The thing about beauty, it has brought
me everything I thought I wanted.
Thinking it will bring me contentment.
(meaningful attention, deepening knowledge
gifts, conversation over the arts.)
How wrong I’ve been. Even though I
thought different. Muse, soothe me,
like roses, I’ve been drenched in thorns.
False-beauty believes in a image in
the mirror, the others don’t. Now that I'm
scared, I've formed another beauty,
a life lived.
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