‘We all better lives,
very few of us, want
to be better people’

With the keys to immortality, I sold
my soul, the prices was cheap, walking
into church, holding Nietzsche's hand,
bursting into a ball of flames,
on the hall of fame when it comes to
pill popping, turned clean, I’m on
the wall of shame, should not be walking,
we got nothing in common, I’m a
white trash god.

Lyrical poets, tender, soft, delicate, sensitive, ideal, intriguing, interesting, intelligent, creative, lovers, horror, artistic. Whirling galaxies, bursting words. Wanting expression beyond the usage of language by words. I wasn’t good at painting. I didn’t see a burning bush. Aurora melted. I’m entirely alien to some people, I’m a foreigner to this world, so, this earth is an alien to me, every face to me is a stranger that either smiles or frowns. Aesthetics, a stimulus abuse. Genius writes in grandeur style. Walking slum internally. I just wanted to invite beauty into my soul. Where I yearn human connection. Changing society, changing moods of poems. Moving, sweeping through, my time here is done while I am alive. A poet. A temper of the modern age. A small moment. An epoch for history. Do not follow any artist like faith in religion. Poems, therapy for moods. Words for thoughts. Despite what experience the poem is forming. Call it artistic blessings, I want to scream out loud, cause it’s all I feel inside.joy in happiness is a drug. Struggling humans. Lean upon something always outside of themselves. Falsehood. Can personal discipline result in personal freedom? Process of life is to die. Coughing into poetry, lighting a cigarette, a deep & unhealthy words spoken with the pen, my front line voice, because it’s what I feel, choking cause of the experience I’ve lead, I wanted a passionate life, smoke haze in my eyes. Death is the remedy to personal chaos. Envy the dead. They can no longer feel the pain you’re feeling. I cannot be writing endless poetry to ease anything, it doesn’t work. Dumping from tenets of the heart, straight from the start, my art is made from turmoil. I  am not promoting hardship, sorrow or even looking for sympathy. Hollow calendar days lived. Silent solidatarly within me, I tried to reach, but I feel on deaf ears, this is after I’ve been told how special I am to them, life had provided a versatile charms, leading me into smiling faces, a fear filled journey, I’m bewildered by painful hardship of learning that I’m never as meaningful as I’ve been told that I am, it is my fault for believing & seeing the good in others. I learned how to write not to create beauty or to express, allowing art to breathe, I write to compensate. Avoiding coming to grips with my eternal loneliness that is being passed from eternity to eternity. A jab to genius. Now my emotional intelligence is thinly painted by a veneer of sweet lies. It’s never ending, like the days of the week. Poetry carries immortal love, that not only the eternity of humanity tries to reach for, but lovers & those individuals in those love situations want. Poems dwelling in numberless moments. Words occupying single featureless images of mood-sensations. Reading, they stay silent throughout astonishment of self-discovery. Nothing is secret to the heart. I’m a stinking excrement desolated person. I can construct words in poems. Taken from elements of my personality. I think I’m ****. The very moon shared by everyone now darkens only over me. Without frontiers, a self without boundaries. Finding no ecstasy in divinity of words professing deities. Don’t know if I’m or the transcendental mystic traits re rare in the lives of others, but without reason, no one can purposeful handle. My breathe tore & rasped. As I am living, I cannot be taken away from the fundamental problems of life, I am not excused from it. The eccentrics will always be lonely, admired mostly from a distance, any closer, it’s normally at an arm’s distance. Maybe it's the curses of freedom. Ancestry breeding modern burdens. A scar with no name. A long time in the making. My problems to others, is like drinking warm wine. Life is brief, the pain is deep.

Personal intrigue can get
one entangled with another,
I'm so pretty, don’t do it to me,
you’ll leave, can’t keep up,
cause I’m contraband, so you’ll
find another, latch onto them,
cause their in pain.
You go tell someone, rub my tummy
get your fix.

(glory under silence is pointless,
don’t puff out your chest, come alive,
use a vest, fire back)
Poetry intended to be written over Heaven,
but it’s everlasting in Hell.
Eternity to eternity.
Shadows without a face, nevermind, if I left
tell your friends, natural causes is a
serial killer.
Discolouring of magic, paganism,
it ain’t even easter.
Scene one, coming out crying, not on
the stage, I found myself at a table,
with divas & bunnys, with their dealers,
pimps & bankers,
I’m on the guest list, giving me bourbon
& *****, cause it’s how they wanted.
Mortal wrenching,
easy to commit to vice than to virtue.
Wordless language in both morals & evil.
The ones who
can transcend, their soul
is waged over.
(I’m cliche, cause I can obtain traits
from ideals, resulting in being original,
I’ve been told before that
I’m special, few had ever thought about
it, rub my tummy, get your fix, smile for me now)

I maybe cliche, I maybe melodramatic,
attending to my intense emotions,
luminous & free, painful & curse like,
liberty I wanted, but its freedom
from myself to what I need.

The end of learning is to know the minds of all Deities, the souls of masters of culture and secrets of everyone, living or dead. It invokes an oblique final outcast onto this world while being reassured at one’s own newly found Holiness.  The Devil is like God, expressed in various ways and forms, spoken softly and speaking loudly, vices too easy to commit and to make profit from. Wrestling inside, mixing emotions, it’s lonely and addictive, isolating all too easily, now I’m self-centered. Breathing in rustic sin. That is ancient and I’m experiencing it in modern times. I can only experience the present, a delusion of time and personal experience, I can admit in confessions or here in literary streams. I’m reluctant to change. Fragrance of the past, memories of smiles where I experienced moments of joy and I smiled in those moments, perhaps it’s reality’s fault. Over the course of my own life, pain became normal from it’s first infliction and pressed upon my very essence, I’m slightly bitter. In layman's minds, its easy to control, either by tone of speech. Softly killing them. We’re all slaves to an extent. My voice is unfragerant, unheard, no meaning in the eas of others, I can speak truths, say things to inspire, etc, etc, and etc. humanity is twice as pretty than Angels and Demons, to a value we have that they don’t, why the spiritual war? Being alive seems so miraculous blessing in itself. I follow no spiritual or religious fate. I am my own. But I’ve learnt, reading, witnessing. Though I resemble others in some way or form. I control myself. When it comes to it, each person's is talented enough to complicate their own life and often pick the easiest way to not only correct it but a strong desire to achieve their own wants. As the Devil is too ready to provide what they want now. The price to cheap. I never think long term. The Devil is happy when one is conformed to earthly standards and thinking. Never tell another person they’re evil or  wrong.  Over the souls of people spread the condor wings of colossal monsters and all manner of evil things prey upon the heart and soul and body of Man. Yet it may be in some far day the shadows shall fade and the Prince of Darkness be chained forever in his hell. And till then mankind can but stand up stoutly to the monsters in his own heart and without, and with the aid of God he may yet triumph. A relief of existing in itself, a burden most cannot part from and most doesn’t have the courage to reach out from something healthy or even fix themselves. Utopia here on earth, is often thought of and pursued by the creed of a select few, normally results in dystopia for others, like the common person, normally a Utopia by people is superficial and only for aesthetic veils. Soul conflicts constantly. Truth is, to do the work of the Devil is easy compared to God. Humility is a virtue of the heavenly, not arrogance. Are we the most superior beast on earth? No, not in strength and not in intelligence. It is very arrogant to assume that we are the most intelligent species when we keep repeating the same mistakes over and over again. In every person, there is a doer and a devil. With every passing days, the doer dies and a devil has to rise.  I have emotional attachment to my thoughts, parting from our personal doctrines is a terror I can’t part from, if I can control my heart, I can achieve vice. I only have one life. It’s been said truth will make people free, people’s mind and hearts cannot accept it, rendering emotional entrapment. Well, and keep in mind where those Masonic Mysteries came from in the first place.

What is intelligence? Is knowing what to do when one hasn’t been taught?

Education often relays on history and a repetition of facts. Rendering people not creating new things or thoughts, even if education can be a bedrock as something one can derive from. Thinking without writing. Not all philosophers are dogmatic. Despite their sole education or speciality in a branch of philosophy. For most ideologies derive at a finality. Where actions can viewed as applied knowledge. But education itself can be a prevention from someone discovering themselves, laying a path for ignorance. Facts can prevent people from thinking for themselves. Every structure is to be thought of as a particular form of equilibrium, more or less stable within its restricted field and losing its stability on reaching the limits of the field. Language is often the key to any intelligence, from the narrative of the mind, to the spoken or written word to the receptive person. As philosophy just question or self-thinking. Reading is only partial. Documentaries only partial. Dialog is partial. Experience is everything. The present is the problem. No one ever use the present as a parent.

Everything is incomplete.

Exposing oneself to thinkers, Sarte, Plato, Chomsky are only a few. Ignorance will always plague humanity and be told throughout history, public or private.

Making the Bible public, gave the common people a reason to learn how to read. Accidentally birthing both interruption and criticism outside the professional network. Despite intentions, duality will exist. Marcus Aurelius put forth what we do now will echo eternity. The exertion of will over reality will provide a conflict in the domain of reality, affecting the person exerting, whether it’s good or bad, will be based upon the reception.

Every truth comes sooner or later. Long term and short term self always around.