I’m thirty, within myself, owning myself, to match my inner world with reality, you’re more middle age & still trying figure yourself out, a turn off, smack yourself now. To my Muse, I see dead people with talking heads. Forever youthful I am. Brought myself from the dead, it’s okay, I see & hear, like the butterflies, I bleed poetry & it’s amatuer now. Peeked inside your soul & feel my cripplying hands. Never be free, blinded within yourself, accept, life is over & not even forty. Word to William Blake, this is too easy & earth still has no Queen. Dynasty in the arts, forever lost humanity in repetitive behavior. In double mysticism I keep on display, you’re always in regret, avoiding to live, keep your heart close cause no-one cares. I’m writing these lines, your trapped in self-delusion. Never reaching platinum status. I’m packing secrets for blackmail, bending over backwards, even if you’re snapping your spine. If Baphomet wills it, your soul is dying now before death. I’m feeling no pressure, flinch, street wars, I’ll be snatching your necklace, pawning all your jewelry. Used, dried, let your thoughts be in riot within your mind, suffer now, burden to everyone you meet. Clutching your heart, everything you want depends on my will, time moves forward, perpetual stuck, hex to move back in each second you draw in a breathe. Mundane, cause there is nothing of substance behind closed doors, full of fashion to use as veiled, everyday person & common like the wind. That was a boy you’re willing to give a heart to, opening soul, where should of been a muse. A nightmare to white parents, being a house that allows for no swearing, a problem child in adulthood, talking back, zen you’ll never had. Your house is broken home & never sing for the moment, no one hears & if they do, it’s in hope to get into your pants, cause it’s too easy. I guess the world is a *******. Talking of hate, instead of being great. Never to rebirth. People turn on you, because you exist. The world is on the edge of your eyesight, never seen. Your full of **** too Jones, that was a ***** who hit you. Moments of recapturing fever isn’t life. Moment to moment, mood to mood, swinging thoughts isn't the pendulum. Hopeless. In truth there is always bitterness, harsh terrain, rough landscape, scars & teardrops. Deprived you’ll ever be. Dried between the legs, never to bear. A desolating story, best chances to sell yourself to a novel. No sad poetry. Weeping in the twilight, realization that people notice & never to lend a helping hand. Still unsigned, having a rough time, sitting the porch, busting random lines, let us commit to Baphomet, maybe a sacrifice can ease your distraught soul. Carnal ripening, can’t relax on this grind, I love my natural highs & I’m popping like Angels in the light of the sky. Guns hidden, in war I don’t waste time, I have rebirth under my comment, so I’m super-rich, it’s a preface to Holiness. You’ll be next to dead poets in the genre of the unknowns, it’s destiny, accept it now. Afixed to failure. Throwing this shade is all too easy. Hoping to finishing. Coming up, if you’re willing to write, you were respected, might win some smiles, or some frown, you’ll always be unsigned with no hype, just a *******. I let you slide for so long & all I feel now is nothing but hate, **** your value of any kind as person, Ray’s got a case of Ak’s, with no safety on & no acid for dutch courage to run up n your lawn with mad guns drawn. You missed your boat. Hermit in modern Australia, just a loner in self induced isolation, I never fold or holdback now, look at your track record, never to learn, just a slave to life’s allusions & depressed because the allusions are yours of tragic made hands labour. I can't believe I’ve stepped to your level to pull this & make it public. I ain’t going to eat, ain’t going to sleep or close my eyes to blink, until a heart combines with a soul, than to the mind & explode harder than a supernova rushing to a planet. Pollen death. Times up, close your eyes. I was too much for you, because you’re too little for me. I wouldn’t hold my breath, I’m not lying, I don’t even have to ask, I already know. An entire existence is beyond blasphemy & writing this is not even amateur, let personal demons smoke you like rolled ****. You’re just too old. A symphony for hell is your very cries. Who has the last laugh is the Outlaw Mystics, using your life as a toy for their experimentals. I’m a slave to my own will. You’re a slave to fantasy. This ends when flesh is being burnt on the cross.