Oh poetry, how you let more than a thousand
flowers bloom in the form of souls. Smile
for me now. Because in daily ease.

Fall in love with a real women, whose making
something of herself with her private intelligence,
Helping hand with her depth of character and
Ready-made beauty, trust me, they hold up
the sun and sky. When they smile, the stars
rise and ballet for them. The rest of this life’s
beauty will be shown, depending on their mood.
Everything else is pure mysticism, man unable
to understand. So, when you’re paying for the
love she gives, with your soul. One will be
Illuminati and the rest will be understood.
And trust me, real women have no-need of boys.

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