Poetic boys, don't let em catch you slipping, don’t get hurt, the depth of one’s love, the depth of wounds of later moments, it’s contraband, can’t feel anything, when will I learn?
The shame is coming, with eyes wide open, holding onto to dear life, I should of stayed calm, but I’ll run into self-destruction when in vulnerability, asking question to what's the matter?
When it gets real, I’ll sabotage, when I push away, I want to say sorry, but silence is the reply, wishing I could let people inside.
To when I see someone, with the heart of a soldier, with the brains to teach a whole nation, I want to lay until the sun rises, the essence of a muse, nothing else I pull into frame & display with such shame, than the totality of my own flaws & left lonely.
Whoever said the struggle will stop today,
mystics get shot everyday,
while they’ve got money for war, but can’t feed the poor.
I’m obsessed of satisfying with creative temperament to a dormant & quiet people, it feels that no one can accept both of my own duality. Straight from the start, speaking truth, even if its hate in return, spitting from dark, it’s poetic, after the show, one sits alone & ignored. Late nights, bright lights, lust & lies, loading in the limousine, with people’s hands hand but no-one is giving out, can I really blame people for trying to get what they can? I might lose my soul, but who knows what I’ll find? I’m blessed to know another, hoping in return I can do the same.

I don’t think it actually steamed of anything, just born with it. Though the more consciousness I gained, the stronger it became. Some types of people highlighted more of it. Some stream of threads sparked stronger insecurities. It’s really no one’s fault. It would prevent genuine feelings to come out or the ability to articulate it. It allows tremendously jealous, angst, wasting time. It gave permission not to permit actual life experience. Suffered thoughts, I emelish and I think I am completely severed from everyone. Leaving me unfilled and always lost in thought.

Never learnt or taught myself to sit back, oserve, that its okay in a humble way internalize reactions, hostile to life, everyone I love I seem to do wrong by, leave me alone, leave me lonely, two extremes, everyone I dislike, I give love, I want everything or nothing at all, rub my tummy than tell someone, waiting patiently to be catching me slipping.

Why I’m quitting. Recently, over the last few months, I’ve been peddling interest in others, a product that never improves, causes depression and gives false allusion, but there's money in it. I know it wasn’t good for me, but I couldn’t stop myself. Now, in saden times, I’m relieved. Advertising is based on thing, happiness. Happiness to the external, to which cannot be touched or owned, it can be seen though. Everyone is born without permission, it’s the same with dying. The subconscious is more likely just yearning for freedom without fear, worry, insecurity. Since creation, humanity has searched for deities. Or at least immortality here on earth.

If the environment, the peers, the family, job, whatever is fulfilling, dropping a bunch of rules on you, you’re there for them, stop asking for change, to meet halfway, trust me, reality is indifferent, one can only change themselves, it’s not on anything I just mentioned. In modern times where, hard work, originality, developing oneself isn’t valued. All my life, I hustled all night. Here is a small list flaws that I am unable to shake alone. Insecurity, clingy, desperation for genuine people, praise for artistic works, a penchant to dramatics, impulse, reacting. And when I find someone who is generally who I am looking for, it’s heavily sparked, like my issues with addiction, I can’t stop until it’s burnt.

As for the those are, well, they’ll do anything to be by your side, cause they said anything to do so and often, it’s justifications for the wrong they do. People often tell one narrative, so you can avoid noticing who they are actually.

Change doesn’t come from the outside. No matter how much good one can contribute. No matter the glittering allure, the sentimental engagement, at times, it’s best to let go and forget, move or charge forward. The dead get tonnes of flowers cause of regret. But for those who know to some degree, might even encourage to take my own advice here. I have. There’s twinge in my heart and those who’ll end up saying something, more likely are unable to put in effort to change themselves. Afterall, it’s harder, harsher, more challenging, hellish than the daily pain they experience in their daily life. It’s shocking to how much one can change.

(I had sold my soul
& the price was cheap)

Still soaking up trouble, like rain in the dirt,
I’m blessed to anyone I get to know,
no-one can be called the Devil, I’ve peaked
behind the curtains, no-one else comes close,
when you’re someone special, you’re either
loved or hated, rarely in the middle.
Reality doesn’t wait for anyone, when you
see someone you love die in the mist,
I’ve been told there will days like this
& it’s silly to pretend, that one’s sins won’t
be accountable for, but we commit, repent
& continue, I guess it's the way things go,
& I knew my cousin was on junk, I blessed
to see twenty-four. Grew up, grew apart,
to our surprise, I got my than five years,
started with poetry & spreaded out with it.
Still people think I’ve got to act only for the block,
where they only see me in the poems I write,
with needles & bourbon, fooling around, like magic
I got up & got out, like I snap my fingers.
Since early days of life, we’ve been friends, now
I see the Devil in your grin, hatred in your eyes,
Satan in your lies, it’s like snakes in disguise.
So how come, you talk with bitter & spite?
It’s my fault for what you’ve done with your life?
We barely embrace, can’t even look at in my face.

It started from smoking blunts in the back,
I can be duplicated, though never replicated, rendering me never to be fading,
straight from addiction into enlightenment intoxication,
started as a *******,
than I rose
to interact with royalty in the gypsy landscape
& developed a fellowship through it,
Now longer drinking liquor wishing meaning to come easier, thank my Muse that I'm still living, now I got live life in the way I was meant to, a paradoxical-muse, spitting game of a higher one. Read me some my poetry, roll me a Persian rug, rather by developing than be another boy with my hands out spitting out fallacy.  Stacked like a fantasy, out to ball to make contact, be back by lunchtime, finaly happy, trying to put some wisdom in my mind and answer anything calling, feeling good like I wanted too.
now everyone normal wants to put their hands on me,
I bathed in poetics,
passion is in my nature,
romanticism is too easy,
took the ideas of dreamingful life, applied them for my own,
I’m either nodding my head for someone to enter
or I’m walking away,
sometimes an experience means nothing, beside another poem to write.
The pain is deep, life is brief.
I can either be of value or just another.
Musings over the world is dreamed of though not everyone alike.

To whats poetry is left unwritten,
though no-one can never detached
from their personal history, regret &
shame seem to always take home
in our private souls. Eyes open agained,
do I dare accept it’s beauty I see in you,
it’s void in the inbetween, I took the
price tag off from it & made love
priceless in your entire essence of
existence. Biting our tongues,
sleeping underneath the covers,
distant in the absence, in ease
in gradual acceptance, to what is
poetry lays in experience. Just spent
my entire energy, getting your attention,
breathing for the
first time, when I rest into a personalized
paradise safety of your arms, it’s
like reality colliding with mythological
Holiness. And I feel love for the very
first time. To what is poetry unwritten
is immortalized in our memories.  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GEadD3s-5go

By Darcy Prince

“The arc of my soul, infected my entire essence, not only my meaning has been found, it deepens into my existence, take me, smile for me now as I’m here for you.” I sighed, wiped off my tear, put out my smoke and got up.

Empting the final sip of my coffee into the kitchen sink. I sprayed myself with some fragrance. Feeling that I'm a world apart when I’m not in her presence. I dressed myself for the day, despite the stains on my clothes and my exit.

‘We’ll still have each other’, conveying to myself leaving the apartment block, to the filled out street of over packed roads and flooding sidewalks. I looked around and confirmed within myself what to do first. Knowing I need new books, to help jump start a new novel to write. I lit a smoke and walked to the markets first. The funny thing about entering middle age, one accepts one has never fully peaked, perhaps only their aesthetic beauty.

I sussed out the fruit, I smelt the herbs, handles red apples and placed what I wanted into the basket, I paid and thanked the clerk and left. Having a coffee. I run over what books I had and tried to focus what I should buy. I think had ready almost most victorian books and should cross over to more modern fiction. Not Hemingway though. Pynchon perhaps.

The complex sounds of the outside world. Gave a strong sense of over-populated life. Not only of natural life of the world, but of people too and their artificial inventions. I looked around and saw only phones and no conversations between tongues and lips. I giggled at my own irony. I’ve got no-one besides her and wondered how this neurotic romantic lead a life to this moment.

Especially where the narrative inside of my internal life made more sense than the reality I live.

I guess I’ve been engaging all to much of the problematic parts of my own nature.

‘Oh why is it all too easy to act on vice than it is to virtue?’ I asked myself.

Nevertheless, great people all started off as people first, common or not. I soaked in the bookstore and the smells of each page. Felt at home and upholding an intellectual dialog with the world around. I walked each asle, my eyes looked at each stem of the books side, stroked a couple as I walked, no Pynchon so-far, his books must be as elusive as him. And even though I'll never confess to another, writers and readers are too alike. The only difference that the search of their overwhelming introverted like quiet life, one wants to talk as the other wants to listen. I settle on the book ‘Heart of Darkness’. To aide my own horror I wouldn’t dare to speak of in the confessional box, a poet’s wet-dream to be a fly on the wall. I’ll be content if it’s been heard before, but whacked if I’m not the worst.

I stepped outside and the sun went from shining to glarring, the world enlarged and as everybody walked past, they looked at me, I lit a smoke and some yelling across the street caught my attention. Some junkies I rolled with in clean-time are back onit, cause I see they're fake. An image to resonate. To the contrary, everyone else, I see clearly are the same.

Harder to act on virtue in this world, is to be truly yourself and not feel so alone. When you see me holler at me, life is mystery, trust the poets flow to deny those who are the same into one’s life, is a no-no.

‘To society’s narrative, earthly success of gold that can’t be taken into the next life seems all too important than building one self to something of Holy worth before death. Let me spark it for you. The World is getting colder, lover, let me hold you.’ Just read one page of ‘Heart of Darkness’, Conrad just inspired to start a new novel. A romance after the end of times. I haven’t fully figured it out, the story of it that is.

Still, sprinkle of thoughts of her, stirs so much inside of me. Not feeling alone. And it pains me so much to be away from her. Lighting a smoke to help with this angst. Her, once a cherish search to find her, she’s so precious, still, I know it’s healthy to be away from here from time to time. Maybe the pain comes from suppressing such romantic-grandeur emotions about her in any moment. The experience of reality and colliding with such reams, a collage of combustions.left me wondering, what will burst first?

Checking the phone. She hasn’t messaged me.

A romance, a cult like - folk tale lived only in personal experience.

I put out my smoke and regained my composure. I continued to write. Like most things of my life, I stared strong and full of hope. I ended up writing a lot, but the feeling of starting a new novel fizzled.

Outside, I left my apartment block. I am international myth. I power walked through every other living being, I’m sure they've got traits to what makes them. I got to the cafe early-on. I read a book and drunk some tea. The war of what is needed and what is wanted, eternal. I wait anxiously. We’ve set up a time to see one another……………………….

A RANDOM STORY WITH A GRAMMAR CHECK
By Darcy Prince

It’s a long leep between knowing wisdom & the wise life.

I look at the mirror. “I have emotional needs and wants. Though my soul collapses in the confrontation of feeling fear.” I breathe and sigh. Lighting a cigarette than wiping a smudge of the mirror. “Why can’t write this **** on paper.”

The bathroom door opens and the music from the house blasts into the bathroom. It distracts me than I snap out my gaze. A random guy I haven’t meet had seem to get luck with Annais. She giggles, crunching her body up. Giggling loudly as the guys smoochies her. Making their way into one of the toilets. I must admit, I do laugh, internally wished them luck and exited the bathroom.

The dance music is loud. As most of the party invites are standing off to the wall. Either alone or holding one on one conversation. I puffed and made my way past people dancing, on the floor passed out or just standing there.

Outside, where the sound of the music is slightly quieter. I put out my smoke and walked to the side, the part of the fence that seems to be less occupied by people. It's a shame that my flaws are embedded into my being. I looked at my phone, flicked over my messages, she’s online, not talking to me, my heart sunk and grew a little more anxious. I lit another smoke and do my best to forget her. But I did only come here on account of her.

“Howard.” A voice behind me spoke. Clearly grabbing my attention. ‘****, it’s Bill’. Walking towards me, with his stomach hanging over his belt buckle. His baseball cap covering his bald head at night, and a half drunk beer in his hand. “I want to know why you quit being a literary critic and be an actual writer.”

I laughed. “There’s less money in it.” I answered.

Bill chuckles. Placing his hand on my shoulder. “ I love your work. I tell everyone that I know you.” Giving me a play slap on my chest. ‘The ladies seem to love your work.”

I now want to leave the party completely. “I know. I get fan mail.”

Standing about a foot away from me. “Despite my endless amounts of questions and your personal philosophy. I want to know if you are willing to read some of my Satanic poetry.”

I took his beer out of his hand. Sipping it empty. “It’s payment.” I Finished my smoke. Flicked on the garden bed, “You’re a Satanist now?”

Bobbing his head up down. “Yep. I read the Satanic Bible and decided it so.”

I plant my open palm on his shoulder. “Good-luck.” I walked away. “Thanks for the beer Bill.”

I decide to leave at impulse. It’s freedom on drugs. Abundant with choice. Ability to create. Definite modern God. Who is the Muse to all philosophers?

Out on the road where all the cars are parked. I look around. Gave one look to the house and said **** it under my breathe. I walked home. I conjure up words that I’ve always to say to her. Knowing full well I should be writing them down for the next time I see her and that at one random moment I will forget. But to what Bill asked me. Alone I diver into self-publishing. Funny enough, I made some sort of success. Im free again. And my thoughts drifted into the strange thing of fame in contemporary art. Classical terms. Fame as a by-product of hardwork and talent. Like Clapton or Dante.

Glorious endeavour with high rewards. Movements of my will. A desire with a proper end. Languishing such things now. I am nothing without art. Surprise to see Bill turn to something as such of Satanism.

I got home and fell asleep.

I woke up. Had a morning coffee and cigarette.

I read the daily paper.

A few chapters of my current book that I’m reading.

Another smoke and coffee.

I begun to write with the radio playing in the background.

The street noises aren’t distraction. It is the capitols music. Just without harmony.

I write.

Stopping in the middle of the dat for lunch.

I watched ****.

I wanted to sleep. But one thing more important than the success of one's art. The effort the artists puts to create art. I forlorn my vice and continued to write, this is one model of freedom.

We’re at liberty when we can create who we are. A noble calling, shaping the clay of my existence. I choose the ideals to embrace.

At the end of my writing day. I decided to open my lounge room window. Hanging out on the window still, smoking and reading a book by Camus. A couple below caught my attention. I giggled. It’s her. With another man and I instantly lose faith in romance. Like Bill, I too have read the Satanic Bible. I took the ideals of her Muse and applied it to myself. I have no vendetta against God. Only humanity.

I flicked my smoke down to the street. Closed my window. And went to bed for the night.

In vain I always seem to rise to a higher self. Funny. I never give credit to the pain I feel. Serene. Untroubled by the undying yearnings to blast humanity of not of their sins. But only their ignorance.

I awoke. Like most of my mornings. I start the day with smoking too much and spending a couple of hours of reading. Seemingly dull and mundane, but it does wonders for my eternal being. I am a sinful prince.

I finished my novel and decided to place it on the pile of planned unpublished manuscripts for life after my death. Like many Satanic based writers before me. I decided to write on similar themes. Late modern society is principally concerned with purchasing things, in ever greater abundance and variety, and so has to strive to fabricate an ever greater number of desires to gratify, and to abolish as many limits and prohibitions upon desire as it can. Such a society is already implicitly atheist and so must slowly but relentlessly apply itself to the dissolution of transcendent values. It cannot allow ultimate goods to distract us from proximate goods. Our sacred writ is advertising, our piety is shopping, our highest devotion is private choice. God and the soul too often hinder the purely acquisitive longings upon which the market depends, and confront us with values that stand in stark rivalry to the only truly substantial value at the center of the social universe: the price tag.
Wisdom is the recovery of innocence at the far end of experience.

I had forgotten about her. At random she never did find the guy she ever wanted and I ended up being namecheck in her suicide note. Stating I was the only true, complex, beautiful soul that could match hers and how the regretted turning me away. Bill did the same. But only because I ignored him that one time at the party. In the publication of my Satanic novel, the Pope condemned to Hell. I sent him a letter that I wanted to do a confession with him. I have not yet heard of a reply. Catholics still protest.

My ability & skill to commit evil
on purpose with a deliberate
consciousness is only matched
by the same forms of doing
good. Whether it’s myself or
to the world. What is worse,
accidental evil or the evil on
purpose? Is it the same for
the good? When it comes to it,
I’ll remain a individual. Regardless
of the community, society, group,
state, political party, sub-groups,
intent, revolutionary groups. It’s
always a battle of culture when it
comes to it.
(Everybody wants to change
the world & than stop when
it comes to changing themselves.
My heart is beating fast, is it
time to die?)

One cannot blame the Devil for the action of sin,
(The future wants me buried, I know who’s a lier)
though it’s sad I can meet him before, in the physical form,
(now I keep two rottweilers next to me bed when I sleep)
smoke in the villas, crammed with exoctic plants,
(my comrades die & come back resurrected)
it’s not even at the crossroads, can’t touch my philosophers stone,
(exploit my secrets, is to exploit everyone else's)
only to relieve my embellishing heart dwellings, one life to lead,
(the only way for me to come back, is by machiavelli.
I’m taking back, what those ******* have stolen from me)

There are secrets in the dark,
a duality of character, life isn’t a mystery,
I am not immune to flaws, mistakes, giving into
my own
fantasy. To push forward in my own
future. Is to accept my present now. Knowing my
own conception of the character I yearn for, I push
forward.
I shouldn’t have a default of burden, for simply breathing.
Under no obligations for reality
to provide
myself of dreams, though I owe it to myself.
Immortalized in pictures if I can achieve,
though it’s sad when no-one notices.
Life is still precious.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Her-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07GBCMWHS/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1540444410&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince

Bewildered at the love I gave,
knowing I got none in return, while pouring more,
anesthetic ****** at times.
Elevated at times when I discovered someone new,
oh easily I give my heart to.
The damage is when my true self melts away
and I forget.
While no love lost, no lost found
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr12?ie=UTF8&qid=1540847509&sr=8-2&keywords=darcy+prince

Romantic gestures in a relentless fashion,
conscious in every moment, closing into
enlightenment, blooming to boundless
edges, like the lotus, newly found love,
from a starting point of fulfillment.
Finishing on something beyond conception.

Eyes of the horror of existence,
anxiety filled actions, driven of avoiding transgressions,
intensely discontented to what lays
in
reality, fearing of being caught up in the rhyme in it.
Rebellious only
towards the mundane & perhaps I’m wanting something I can’t have,
wishing to be immortalized in pictures,
slipping into mystery.
Everyone is telling me
to say something,
but when I speak, they smack me for being clever
while
in irony is they despise a fool.
What's the day without a little night.
Give the crack to a kid,
who cares, a war in the middle east,
rather a war on poverty,
they’ve got money for war, but can’t feed the poor,
always had enough,
seems that it’s always rough.
There’s a war conceptions, so the police can bother me.
Take the evil out of people that are developing themselves, some seem Heaven sent, jails are filled with Mystics, some want to operate in an easy way, but hey, they got to get paid. So they have everything in a ****** way. Perhaps I’m obsessed with finding myself in this uncaring world & for I’ve found in content with my own bitterness. Life can be so disappointing, passionless passages of time. Spitting straight from the heart. I can't rewind, pause or fast forward, when you’re the ****, the world’s eyes gaze upon. On the cover of the magazine, flossing with the fashion, tossing with the stars, late night, lust & lies, bright lights under the trending signs. Everything goes, through generally it does. With people's hands still out, can you really blame people for trying to get what they can?
In the event of demise, I shall die standing up.
Cause
it’s going
to
be
a
tormented & lonely death with a pocket full of soul, with no other place to go.  
I can give to those & I can take away,
it’s tiring to wake up, ****** up, pockets broken now they’re empty with bills to pay, just a body to sell to those sinners, while drinking bourbon while wishing
I didn’t have to live
so Devilish. Just a Zen abuser. But it’s like quicksand,
when you’re on it,
keeping falling, while no-one hears you calling, so you end up self-destructing.

To each rebirth I command myself to undertake,
the closer I become to being a Higher Power, further from being a Muse,
those unable to do the same, it’s alright
to
name
&
shame.
The weak is here to justify the strong,
for most will read & dismiss it as arrogant ego, rather than a self-validating poet,
living in freedom.
Let us party hard, let us party all night, the love of sacrifice is
at the base
of the shrine, profit thrives on stupidity, shown most highlighted in trends
& forefront of subcultures, delusionary revolutions,
the world changes according to the change of the individual,
too bad ignorance isn’t painful,
for
I crave original thinking,
it is too bad I have wasted so much time,
on those who cannot even pull themselves to average,
you’re none to service.
Blessed are those who can destroy false hopes, illusions, trends, validation from others, dependance, angst & insecurity.
Freedom lays in thy hands.
(Heartache, don’t let it bring my heart down,
Jezebel bow your head in shame,
I am the light of illumination,
Mystical enhance my essence is, you phony,
you fake, I’m free, while your wrapped in children’s
attention. The sun rises in the east, at the Beast’s
discretion, than sets in the west, Babylon won’t
test. I’m free again, ruff & ready, you don’t know
what you're living for. Reaching replaceable average
is your best hope. Everything at your feet, still you’re
bitter, bored & sober, so you got nothing to do.
Forgetting suicide is painless)

THYSELF
By Darcy Prince

‘Thy mind is like a tree,
easy to letting go of dead leaves’

Ponder on the mystery, paradox of facet, unknown is my life, passion and drive, not for you, wrapped up in self-made ignorance, my own soul is content and my own meaning, it is thy cosmos, everything and muse. Not for you. It bleeds hate, than in ******* session, it breeds more, just to shatter your very essence. Respect to the Devil. Divine meeting before death. Let go, you’re not dangerous in the defeat. There is no morals, ethics, laws or rules that plucked me up, confine thy character in, my own thought is mosaic, dogma and the word, I’m unflinching, without a heartbeat, without a sound I slide down. Peer and peek into your soul with a ******* vest, trigger happy and I boom.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Killing-Philosophy-Reflection-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07F9QVCW4/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1539149191&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince

Perhaps I’m addicted to the darkside within my internal landscape, display in false veil of happiness, though it’s the poverty that got us trading places, now there’s nothing but hate in bitter harsh terrain, with no healing hands that guide us to Zen and a moment of peace. I don’t hang around much, this grind got me out of touch. In quiet times got me thinking of what we could of been, I ****** around and got attached to you, the only thing I did good was write poetry, because it’s the only thing that you noticing & settled on self-made false conceptions of anything else in regards to me, it brings violent threads of emotions inside my private life that those conceptions seem right to you. With no hope in the future, there's bitterness when I speak, maybe I’m too ignorant that won’t change from now until the end of time. For I pray for my soul to rest & anything to come down & take me away. I’m feeling used, still I am consumed by you, all this time is passing, it hurts my soul everytime I’m reminded of you, I hate myself for allowing my heart to be attached to yours, I hate that I want you, I’ll never be him, I see you when you’re not around, still got images of us of times when you don’t remember, anyone can break your heart, I’ve grown tired of humanity, but never of you, I have my own feelings & love, but you never made an effort to be apart, there was alarms in my life, but I continued, now everything is a ******* mix & the hate inside is taking over my entire being. Everyone I do right by, ends up doing me wrong. I have Muse, meet Deities in my life, travelled with gypsies, meditated to Zen, smoked ancient Heavenly, meet Mystics & talked philosophy, I went from ****** in homelessness to writing poetry & fiction, never finished school & made my own movies, been to Europe & went to lodge with royalty & instead all my memories are filled with you. For the only thing I can give my right hand to is yours. All I got is hate, no I don’t owe you, no I don’t know you, I lay back with this bag of magic dust, gives me the strength to deal with bizarre **** in my mind, for I have returned back to evil, just to destroy, I have grown sick & tired, stop with the thinking, Demons are my friends & have meet in this life before death. Becoming so hateful I can glare & burn you into Hell where Baphomet lives. Jealousy is love & hate, my rare breed can have you bleeding in vain, your future is in the same place as you are now, besides the despair is more intense, no love lost, no love found. Oh fate in life, don’t hurt me no more, I have given up, on the silence given to me, while I still worry, is this hell? I married to myself, devoted to myself. Open Bibles burn. Anton Lavey is my hero. Grinding pills into dust, than I volunteer at the nursing home. I wake up with the intentions to spread the Devil’s message, after all, strapped to me like a bomb, willing to live is the willingness to commit suicide,  I’ve meet him in person, even without believing, before the act of dying. You know why my hand is numb? My sister ****** me off & I didn’t ***. Put it back Sisqo, you know where it belongs, **** your love songs. Than I smacked my sister for speaking ****, she said I couldn’t write poetry, so-what she’s handicap. I’m here to save generations of babies. Because in a Biblical sense, I am a ******* witch. Judas is my virtue & forgiven me. Hey *****, I ******* hate you. I’ll **** you before killing you, than film afterwards of sloppy seconds, I know some Serbs that will finance my retirement for that tape. Next time you see an Outlaw, pay him respect or get shell-checked. I’m taking back what belongs to me, the only way you’ll see me again, is by Machiavelli. My life is mine & is too Holy for another. It is way I’m so closed up. Screams of the Musing world. Denied, cause I’m too much for you, never to think that you’re too small for me. Sell my your soul & I’ll **** in your ******* sleep.

The level is twice as deep, so it’s twice as cold, passing the heat & fire,
I got & felt, get up & feel, get up cause it’s real, got up & ****.
Some do, some don’t,
**** around & start & riot, spit up some lyrics, too late with that emergency call.
I’ve tasted martyrdom, it’s holier than ******.
A-lot people crave in their yearning, but they all stay bluffing, hollering at the moon, all alone.
You’ll be nothing but bone & ashes, with Grandma
the only one remembering your name.
Monks singing in my ear, ‘**** mystic, ******* ****’. So, if they’re at least attractive,
they’ll be sacrificed on our holy shrine.
It’s easy to be smacking fake poets, gypsies, monks, mystics & muses. My own death is at the back of my mind. My gun is loaded.
Feeling no pressure.
You’ll be next to Dante, next to Baphomet, witnessing Milton reciting, its the best place & it’s within your destiny.
Bleeding in in vain, hating is in my nature.
The ones who can transcend here & in the now can talk about, can’t stand yourself, I understand, it’s hard to come to grips with how you ****** it up & missed your boat. And that’s within life & not even forty yet.
Once upon time, you were an idol, you’re not even a rival now, it’s a crime against humanity, trust me, destroying you is that easy. Put don’t any pen for any blank paper that you write anything on, no one cares & the only reason you have anyone around is out of pity or a quick session. I get it, you’re ditty, I’m musings, you rock boys that’s borderline ****, I rock royal europeans. You’re getting smoked like rolled **** in this realm of reality, I’m not perplexed & rest in the thought it’s supposed to be, like how women ain’t meant to be like you. Terms of you, its easy to glock & aim. Sure you got some skill in the style you live, in the way you create art, you may call it yours, but I call it bitting. Don’t puff out your chest. Accept it & move on. Surrender. I made it out of addiction, instantly learnt how to transcend, you’re the same since sixteen. Unable to part from your past, we all die one day, it’s not a crime unless if they catch me, if they rush my home in the morning, Demons & Masons will storm the station in the evening.
I’ve been peeing in a cup since I meet you, your body has no value, your soul has nothing of value, thoughts spit out junk, emotions of a dying old lady who hadn’t lived. When I raise my knife, I’m going to cut some skin & if the ***** thinks I love her, the ***** don’t know me.
It’s
been
written
God
doesn’t
like
ugly.
Don’t even try eating makeup. I got your friends popping their head at my very thought.
Mean mugging don't mean nothing.
My confidence is in the loud,
your insecurities are in the public.
I’m too legit, the Mystics know the difference between me & you, me dying that’s ludicrous, no respect from me, I’m vet, if I’ve got to do some silence, its only a minor setback, I’ll be right back with Demon, Transcending Enlightenment & a six-pack.  
Your thoughts are not legit,
mystics relate to me, some are younger than buck,
pimping is easy,
no one is thinking of you as a person, so stay of the tip of my ****
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr12?ie=UTF8&qid=1535754370&sr=8-2&keywords=darcy+prince

(How many more funerals do we have to endure, before realizing that not only life is here now, but one another. I am unsure what on the correct actions. But promise now, that I’m here and willing. And why is it, the only ones that are lonely are the ones who are real and can offer not only wishes of these earth but the offers from the world where Muses live?)
Thought I hit rock bottom, wouldn’t you if we could trade places, as others are getting rich, instead of a war on poverty, there’s a war of being normal and fitting in, came up and get pulled over but I’m legal and got away cause I’m clever. Ever meet someone who’s real and in development of being better than yesterday, every face is the same in your eyes, give me mind and don’t blame the dealers. Settling on less and point to the stars, on three, give love to the real mystics, you still feel me? Mystics get pushed to the side and forgotten about, because they’re introverted, I just remember James Dean and will live in death and now who’s the biggest gang in the world? The bourgeois or the trend followers? On my back because I’d rather be myself. They’ll pay top dollar for your soul, snap. One mystic teaches two mystics, three mystics teaches five, we don’t die, just multiply and blast on the lesser of worth. Soldiers of the century. A blessing to be somebody, so I’m a blessing to anyone I open up to. We all die one day. Ducking to abandon buildings, laugh till I’m crying, rushing behind me, carefree and if they dare me, I’ll share all my secrets and if they come and get me in the morning, Mason will rush the station in the evening. Normal telling me ‘no’, you’ve been waiting for this for a long time, its in my final moments of life. Jealous as people. Yearning freedom yet work to be normal. Work until the issues is burnt. Antisocial on purpose. Do it to them before it’s done to you and if I die by ******, take a look at my peers. From Manly to beach to Queens, keep your eyes on your prize. When the smoke clears, your soul is finally free, heart of soldier, brains to fill libraries, here on earth as Musing droppings and immortality is reached and experience. Do dirt, your hands will be *****. Live in the light and **** the darkness. Regret what you said, a life lived, not using the present to parent the future, a waste. Smile to brighten the stars because these shoulders can hold so much. There is a difference of mindless violence and deliberate actions. Conflictions happens within the duality of wanting to be yourself in silence and knowing wanting others to notice you without conforming. Life full of controversial. It won’t budge. Get and feel, get up because it’s real, get up and live. There’s a difference of living to fit in, while in mindless despair of knowing who you are. It’s unfortunate that one can forgive while one can’t forget simultaneously while living. Worsens when one can learn from it. Blasphemy when it teaches There’s snakes, silent people in the dark, there’s apples, people show their real self in the dark, there’s dogs and cats. You’ll never see them if you’re living in the fog.And if it’s a self produced fog, it means there is a self made solution. Don’t holler my name. Where poetry fails in no language in existence that describes everything about being human and being fully alive, when it comes to it, only the inner world is damaged because of it. Makes you nervous on purpose. Your inner world is your turf. Use not your chest puffed out, use your heart and walk like a giant. Sometimes it’s hard enough to deal with your family. You’re glad that they are made and just mad because they differ. **** this ****, I’m going into exile. Hanging with the gypsies, stolen my watch, bang on the camps, party with the moonshine in the veins, has a poet confessing secrets, while it inherents the wonders of this world, I like that and become a Muse in end of my life. I hold myself back, cause told not to let them phase me, otherwise they’ll make me crazy, couldn't catch me with my people, on my back because I choose to be different - snap. They wouldn’t understand even if I opened up, trying to stay free of mundane, pack of wisdom. Game is what my Muse gave. It’s not the way I made it. Wasn’t turned out this way, just the way I raised myself this way. But ****’em, they’ll die lonely in despair as the what's done in the dark comes to the light and wise laugh like the Joker. Addiction in my youth. Recovery approaching thirty. And all I saw is the same face. Got any last words? Not after me. Can’t make my life, nor can you take away my life, you can shoot one mystic, but can’t **** us all. Until learn, let us raise wisdom and the world of romance. Much love to the mystics who are there and ignored. I see clearly and the wants of the normal are pulling you down. One way or another, they’ll be giving it up. Here we go and don’t stop. I’m still around for you. Dispute the silence you give me. Despite the length of it took me. I’m refusing to give up and I’m seen as a major threat, cause I can remind you the things you want to forget and to what you want at the same time. I love it when you give me time and attention, because it’s what I can give you, but despise when you’re not around, cause it reminds me of the horrors of my own flaws.spitting facts and ain’t afraid the hold back. I ain’t like no other man, but lets trade places and you’ll be able to see what I do. And the only times that I change is when I get better, just add in humility mixed with introvert traits, and everyone forgets about me. Rendering questions of why bother and other jealous ones get the glory. And if it wasn’t overwhelming like the beauty of a Supernova, I’ll be running up on your lawn with all my might and blast enlightenment in your heart. For now, peace to real Mystics. Who get up and feel, because they know how real life is. And I ain't going back to hustle game. If it’s against all odds for love, than I’m willing to roll my dice. Not at the reasoning of never saying ‘no’, it’s because I’ve seen your worth and I’m blinded to the rest of the world, I rise myself to go after people who are worth than man’s gold, they’re always known for flashing. Touch my heart, I’ll open your soul to the Heavens above, it’s been written that I must, tell me no, avoid and throw anger. Do whatever, it will happen in the end. Be the real I’ll always be, breathing or dead. What would you do, if you were me?
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr12?ie=UTF8&qid=1535754370&sr=8-2&keywords=darcy+prince

Seemingly alive, in perpetual longing time, burden with emotions, joy stops, pain is felt. Thinking mind relentless, I’m an entire generation as singular individual. Heat rises, sounds amplified, rooms seem smaller when I step in, life dares me to forlorn not to live. It has no remorse. Morals and ethics, human. Beauty? No love found. No love lost. The burdens of living, twisted. Soundless, slow, precise and shafts of hope that is really false. Complete poetry and thinking philosophy. I am alive. Despite of everything.

In life with the ups & downs,
when the street lights come one, the gypises come out,
all my life, got told there’s something wrong with my mind
& it’s been written God doesn’t like ugly,
so bought myself a gun, stay on my grind.
I joined the outsiders in exile, learnt street talk,
dwelled in mystery, looking onto history, as a tool,
wrapping myself around the present to ease the fear of the future,
Drinking red *** , roll me the blunt,
dived
into
success when I know how to self-validate.
Perhaps my
genes
are different
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr12?ie=UTF8&qid=1538518619&sr=8-2&keywords=darcy+prince

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.

https://www.amazon.com.au/Killing-Philosophy-Reflection-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07F9QVCW4/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1538122712&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince

Seemingly alive, in perpetual longing time, burden with emotions, joy stops, pain is felt. Thinking mind relentless, I’m an entire generation as singular individual. Heat rises, sounds amplified, rooms seem smaller when I step in, life dares me to forlorn not to live. It has no remorse. Morals and ethics, human. Beauty? No love found. No love lost. The burdens of living, twisted. Soundless, slow, precise and shafts of hope that is really false. Complete poetry and thinking philosophy. I am alive. Despite of everything.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Her-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07GBCMWHS/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid=1534764910&sr=8-1&keywords=darcy+prince

Pyramids, eyes, people and mixed races, tall, lean, red eyes, interstellar. Rain does not happen here, plains of san, heat and trading with different planets. Twilight slopes. Humanity now, since making contact, everyday progressing one hundred years each day. Transfixed on wisdom. I wonder around, hearing different languages, strange signs and golden objects. Dogma, religion and any deities have no meaning but philosophy still has. The Masons are the closest there is to religion. Some of the peasants believe that Zion had arrived as the elite profits, with the behind the scenes still mold reality, the air still reeks of paranoia and the way reality presents itself, there is more still need to be found. And my travels are alone, running till my legs give-out, but I don’t cry anymore, I don’t even want to die anymore. On the outskirts of civilization, I mediate, preparing my entire being to bust out and Illuminate those willing to let me in. Complex, metaphor and metaphysical, I’ve awakened myself and reached to a point where I need to share myself. Not to save them, but to increase the quality of life as time spent together. I blossomed in a self-induced void, grew sick and tired of it and fought my way out. I’m stepping out as I stepped close to the neo-capital of Egypt. Unity now, since the war had settled and dust feel, like dew on a winter morning.I dressed the same so I wouldn’t stand out and walked silent, so they won’t be noticed with my varying accent. Humanities professed beliefs is always different from their daily actions performed in each moment they live, it’s why so many complan about it, while forgetting to change themselves first. I stood to the side, it’s been marked for me to wait, no longer on death row. Vibrating anticipation, wondering where my contact is? I laugh now, seeing all those lizards walking around now and accepted, considering the amount of years the theory about them was being laughed at. The jokers never are remembered. I assume they’ll take at least an hour. I veil my face when I see the police enter the same alleway as I am waiting in. they walk straight to me, clinch their hands and point right at me, telling me what's my business waiting here for, I gesture that I’m mute. Didn’t buy. Throwing me to the way and checking my pockets. I carry nothing besides common crystals. I feared what they’re going to do next. They rip my clothes, exposing my tattoos. They laugh. And any crowd that had formed had dispersed, silence hits then they draw their guns. Crazed fluorescent lights, cholera flowers bloomed from the sand we stood on. I spoke their language, reciting the words I had for the connection I’m waiting on. They didn't reply, just asked me to follow them. Mortal now, immortal later. Stretching my soul. The only way to spoil reality is to be immortal. We arrive at some obscure spot, where only Egyptian Gods dwelled, everything is cleaned and well groomed. No one started at me, by now I felt safe enough to let down my veil. Coming through like the wind. They sit me down, across from the throne. I can’t tell them yes, if they don’t ask. All the servants leave and police leave. A string of violin music replaces every sound here on earth. Finally the Pharaoh steps out, alone, in a violent way, puffs out his chest and instantly makes eye contact with me. I do what I need to do. I undress, exposing my **** body and my tattoos. Sitting down about one hundred feet between us. The Pharaoh sinks into a rest and relaxes his manner. I step forward……………………………….enter via behind the curtains.

Starched thoughts written in poetry, cold in it’s sober sensation, internal landscape inside flushed emotional states, it's a bullet in my soul.
A kiss to part from my past, it’s fatalistic but yet I have not forgotten it. I’m a slow burn shimmer, unveiling with my beauty and value.
Vaulting now, open when wanted for I never need to now.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr12?ie=UTF8&qid=1535754370&sr=8-2&keywords=darcy+prince

I’m insisting to live a meaningful life,
hear nothing but angst, allowing me
to believe that shallow takes are meant
to be, selling myself short, vape smoke
battling smoking ancient Heavenly,
criticism over coffee, dreaming while
in the mundane, aspiration to reclaim
myself, I need to get myself alone,
it’s where I've started from. Meditate
to flatter life’s graces and hope in those
prays, life deems acceptable and able
to live at thy-will.

Why must I be hard-headed?

I’ll come through with guns, **** around and riot in your life. I spit up for-real, get up and feel, because it’s real. No emergency calls allowed. A lot of men are heated, but most stay bluffing. Society wants to duck tape and **** me, Demons telling me they hate me. Keeping you running, hollering on the roof, like the werewolf, my Muse gave me permission to let my will be done with no consequences. **** mystics, ****. Death has been always on my mind, ever since sobriety had been master. For I’ve been through phases in order to find myself, finally stumbled upon the crossroads. Saw nameless faceless, who experienced mindless violence, take my breathe, give me death, give me rest, I’m going to live on when I die, when I do, I want to be a living legend outside folklore. Feeling no more pain. Masonic learning, Masonic magic, my third eye can peer into yourself, bleed from the mouth and see visions of hell inside. A heart of soldier, with the brains to teach a whole nation. My hands on your hips, no time to *******, **** your boyfriend I want love tonight. I dare those boys to shoot in open fire, even at point blank range, real Mystics don’t die, they just multiply. Woman, come creep with me, you know I can keep a secret, but we got to be blood in, blood out. Bury me, it’s what they all said once, my personal past, I was once like them, cause they wanted me to be just like them, but I changed into myself and parted from their lifestyle and no retaliation is a must. Even it sparks a holy war.
Shot at me five time, so I joined a gang, they never preach loyalty, just act on it. Put their knife through your six-pack. Admit it, life isn’t want you wanted. My pursuit of Masonic knowledge is greater than my shortcomings. Anxiety is my phantom ache. My flaws are my horrors, I’m in forever to sort them out and have my mind learn how to master them all. Because my soul is boundless of its own landscape. Poets, painters, writers and cinema glory, in exile and unnoticed. Against all odds, shall expose people's personal secret. Hush now. You’re living in fantasy. I take Demonic mythology serious, cause it’s proven fact. Tell yourself whatever you want. There is no justification of you breathing in the wind freely and walk on this earth surface with no purpose. Known for flashing and little substance, the weak’s meaning to life, is to justify the strong. Awkward and heavy. Touch one of mine, I will destroy everything you love. If the cops come and get me in the morning silence, my Masons will rush the station by the evening with guns drawn. War is cheaper than the court systems. I’ll be the real, breathing or dead. People who don't rhyme right, seen too many movies. Before, I feared death and saw only demons. Angels battle them within me. The treachery of a Demon and it’s tyrant intentions is nothing compared to the betrayal’s of Angels. I learnt how to treat a woman, but from what the tricks told me about cheating husbands and their behavior. Militant soldier, the sun may rise in east where the Beast is, but set in the west where the angels are, we are the light of the world, mystical enhanced, the world’s Bablylon can’t test, we’re free again. Blessed are the ones who develop themselves into God’s. Cause it serves reality. Brethren, Anastasia my muse, we’re free again. Speak of The Devil, he shall appear. I’ve met a higher power here in life, before death and provided everything for my desires to be at ease, yet personal freedom still expands, along with my mind and felt no more pain. To my soul to take, immortality now, I’ve surpassed earthly glory.

To poetry,
There is all kinds of women out there, women in the physical form, it’s only their personality is there difference is & where I value, soft spoken voices, touches over poetry curves, breathes & gasps, eyes like stars I gaze upon, addiction to romance, lets us talk in deep discussion, if not, let me glare deep in the eyes that you own, experience life together, let me experience you, love is a deep concern of mine. But such concerns I cannot commit to pen & paper that produces poetry. Love, bleeding into one soul as neo-enlightenment.

Though we both came from the same place, perhaps it’s our desires & reality in mismatching that got us changing places, who’s to say I’m right or wrong, through hard times got my heart turn hard & my anxiety got my character stupor. Real friends make effort to be apart & make us feel good. It’s been a while since a flashed a smile. I hope it won’t stay until the end of time. I am able to let go, another poem out, it’s less than what I’m about, there is more, but the only thing I’ve done good is writing poetry. Now I’m peeked behind the curtain & willing be selling my soul. Now I’m in forever.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid=1536924150&sr=8-1&keywords=darcy+prince

The collective is here to justify the individual, I don’t bother to resist,
too swept up in my own world, it’s something beautiful and something
free. When self-validation creeps in, all ego is lost, a wanting attention
is more and it’s a waste of time. Snatching hearts and marking marks.
Right now I have my mind made up. The wisdom belongs to me. To each
breathe in each new moment, I part from my own past, while it teaches
me, I drop into the present and I angst never over the future. My own
life undeniable, because I have to live it, when it comes to others, I’m
free. Secret is charming and I am to myself.

Rare people are exquisite, it’s too bad they’re ignored and
pushed to the side. Perhaps it’s a reality they present or they’re
natural ability to alter one’s life for holiness of mysticism,
leaving meaning and dreams to be lived in reality. From strong
winds, the flowers pulled up and turned into butterflies. It all
sounds sweeter than honey. For that, they can all provide the
opposite. The capacity to live. They hold the capacity to do evil.
Perhaps they’re made to be alone, in either isolation or in crowds,
though it’s sinful to ignore them.

I grew tired of being poor, so I looked for something to ******,
my own pardon that I was not the one who invented poverty.
In experience, where I smoked up, I dared to think for myself,
and became a worry, when I learnt I lived a poor quality life.
Doubt is uncomfortable, dangerous moods are addictive and
they’re at point blank range, ready to fire. I became privileged
when it comes to life and there’s nothing worse being in a crowd
that all you can feel is loneliness
https://www.amazon.com.au/Her-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07GBCMWHS/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid=1536705076&sr=8-1&keywords=darcy+prince

Does death permit an individual to pass
on being apart of this world, while alive?
I’m I an eternal lost or avoiding a predestined life?
For I know who to create from nothing, flame life,
while provide reasons not to smile. Marking marks
and jacking hearts. Is my mood based of having
one foot in this world, while the other is in mine?
Many of us pursue impluse solutions, while in a
breathless fashion, pass what is made for us.
No one can ever find true beauty in poetry or art,
it’s not seen in everyday life. To what is made for
us, can only be lived. For why I’ve I lived in passion
and to have no pairs of eyes noticed? Or is it the
burdens of being an introvert? I have kept a front
for this world as I cry in the metaphysical world.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr12?ie=UTF8&qid=1535754370&sr=8-2&keywords=darcy+prince

(How many more funerals do we have to endure, before realizing that not only life is here now, but one another. I am unsure what on the correct actions. But promise now, that I’m here and willing. And why is it, the only ones that are lonely are the ones who are real and can offer not only wishes of these earth but the offers from the world where Muses live?)
Thought I hit rock bottom, wouldn’t you if we could trade places, as others are getting rich, instead of a war on poverty, there’s a war of being normal and fitting in, came up and get pulled over but I’m legal and got away cause I’m clever. Ever meet someone who’s real and in development of being better than yesterday, every face is the same in your eyes, give me mind and don’t blame the dealers. Settling on less and point to the stars, on three, give love to the real mystics, you still feel me? Mystics get pushed to the side and forgotten about, because they’re introverted, I just remember James Dean and will live in death and now who’s the biggest gang in the world? The bourgeois or the trend followers? On my back because I’d rather be myself. They’ll pay top dollar for your soul, snap. One mystic teaches two mystics, three mystics teaches five, we don’t die, just multiply and blast on the lesser of worth. Soldiers of the century. A blessing to be somebody, so I’m a blessing to anyone I open up to. We all die one day. Ducking to abandon buildings, laugh till I’m crying, rushing behind me, carefree and if they dare me, I’ll share all my secrets and if they come and get me in the morning, Mason will rush the station in the evening. Normal telling me ‘no’, you’ve been waiting for this for a long time, its in my final moments of life. Jealous as people. Yearning freedom yet work to be normal. Work until the issues is burnt. Antisocial on purpose. Do it to them before it’s done to you and if I die by ******, take a look at my peers. From Manly to beach to Queens, keep your eyes on your prize. When the smoke clears, your soul is finally free, heart of soldier, brains to fill libraries, here on earth as Musing droppings and immortality is reached and experience. Do dirt, your hands will be *****. Live in the light and **** the darkness. Regret what you said, a life lived, not using the present to parent the future, a waste. Smile to brighten the stars because these shoulders can hold so much. There is a difference of mindless violence and deliberate actions. Conflictions happens within the duality of wanting to be yourself in silence and knowing wanting others to notice you without conforming. Life full of controversial. It won’t budge. Get and feel, get up because it’s real, get up and live. There’s a difference of living to fit in, while in mindless despair of knowing who you are. It’s unfortunate that one can forgive while one can’t forget simultaneously while living. Worsens when one can learn from it. Blasphemy when it teaches There’s snakes, silent people in the dark, there’s apples, people show their real self in the dark, there’s dogs and cats. You’ll never see them if you’re living in the fog.And if it’s a self produced fog, it means there is a self made solution. Don’t holler my name. Where poetry fails in no language in existence that describes everything about being human and being fully alive, when it comes to it, only the inner world is damaged because of it. Makes you nervous on purpose. Your inner world is your turf. Use not your chest puffed out, use your heart and walk like a giant. Sometimes it’s hard enough to deal with your family. You’re glad that they are made and just mad because they differ. **** this ****, I’m going into exile. Hanging with the gypsies, stolen my watch, bang on the camps, party with the moonshine in the veins, has a poet confessing secrets, while it inherents the wonders of this world, I like that and become a Muse in end of my life. I hold myself back, cause told not to let them phase me, otherwise they’ll make me crazy, couldn't catch me with my people, on my back because I choose to be different - snap. They wouldn’t understand even if I opened up, trying to stay free of mundane, pack of wisdom. Game is what my Muse gave. It’s not the way I made it. Wasn’t turned out this way, just the way I raised myself this way. But ****’em, they’ll die lonely in despair as the what's done in the dark comes to the light and wise laugh like the Joker. Addiction in my youth. Recovery approaching thirty. And all I saw is the same face. Got any last words? Not after me. Can’t make my life, nor can you take away my life, you can shoot one mystic, but can’t **** us all. Until learn, let us raise wisdom and the world of romance. Much love to the mystics who are there and ignored. I see clearly and the wants of the normal are pulling you down. One way or another, they’ll be giving it up. Here we go and don’t stop. I’m still around for you. Dispute the silence you give me. Despite the length of it took me. I’m refusing to give up and I’m seen as a major threat, cause I can remind you the things you want to forget and to what you want at the same time. I love it when you give me time and attention, because it’s what I can give you, but despise when you’re not around, cause it reminds me of the horrors of my own flaws.spitting facts and ain’t afraid the hold back. I ain’t like no other man, but lets trade places and you’ll be able to see what I do. And the only times that I change is when I get better, just add in humility mixed with introvert traits, and everyone forgets about me. Rendering questions of why bother and other jealous ones get the glory. And if it wasn’t overwhelming like the beauty of a Supernova, I’ll be running up on your lawn with all my might and blast enlightenment in your heart. For now, peace to real Mystics. Who get up and feel, because they know how real life is. And I ain't going back to hustle game. If it’s against all odds for love, than I’m willing to roll my dice. Not at the reasoning of never saying ‘no’, it’s because I’ve seen your worth and I’m blinded to the rest of the world, I rise myself to go after people who are worth than man’s gold, they’re always known for flashing. Touch my heart, I’ll open your soul to the Heavens above, it’s been written that I must, tell me no, avoid and throw anger. Do whatever, it will happen in the end. Be the real I’ll always be, breathing or dead. What would you do, if you were me?

The light of illumination has reached me,
now it’s consuming my entire being,
without the use of water and apples, Monks
nor priests, earthly dogma nor it’s man-made
Philosophy. I will spit on anything earthly,
my vengeance and bitterness of earth shall
be known. At points of evil rapture in dark
Times, earths shame will be naked while
feeling it’s shame. As the Beast will speak
with all tongues, calling upon it’s hidden
Protectors, veiled as secret societies, shall
come forth. Fire breathes and evil filled hate.
Fools and those easy to dismiss will view
upon this as crazy and something to ignore,
they’re pillars of this world, for this world
and caused the world's problems. Bringing in
the rapture they have.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr12?ie=UTF8&qid=1535754370&sr=8-2&keywords=darcy+prince

Life goes on, on the minds of dying men,
when they use their lips to speak truth, as
flickers of their own reality go over their
mind and whimper, despite who’s in their
final moment of this life.

While poetry provides much beyond comfort
and secret sharing thoughts. Though in terms
of love, it seems like promise that can’t keep,
nor provide. Despite its authority on the subject
and experience. Still highly valued. And in a full
world of people, love can still be in one single
person missing you. Life can change in a instant,
perhaps for some, they cannot oblige because
of the internal. Which is why so many disbelief in
the love poetry conveys with such pride. Remain
for their natural life, avoiding and in despair, with
a slight touch of sour bitterness. While most live
and grow tired of the soulmate coming to save
them, than settle into a dullness normality and
learn how to be a partner.  
https://www.amazon.com.au/s/ref=nbsbnoss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=darcy+prince

Poetry has well thought out a collection of words. To articulate, perhaps the metaphysical essence inside of us all. Short impulse drops of wisdom. To comfort us, as either read or write. That internal voice or maybe a poet is someone with something to say, just no one in their life to tell. Poets are either deep thinkers who cannot write out or simply doesn’t have the patience to write philosophy, romantics without lovers or have, but no soulmate, maybe just physically formed anxiety. Regardless what makes up a poet, where few had any fame and if they have, it’s normally skewed and absurd. Poets had and still do contribute a large part to humanity and have nearly the same duration of history as humanity itself has. Here is a spontaneous stream of thoughts on poetry. For me, in modern times, poetry is a high taste in high art for people in high culture, like the theatre, ballet, and classical music. A snob overtone in terms of the audience. Despite the aesthetics of it all or the poetry for the rebels and the poems full of hatred towards parts of life and humanity, constructing words of resentment, in order to master than mood.

A common trait that I hold in terms of my friends who are interested in poetry, in particular, my male friends. Is that at one point experienced an intense boyish love towards a female they knew or know in their life. It’s normally a strong take to the lust that is veiled as a fairytale. Turning to poetry to have words to say or in hope to impress them. In most cases, it’s failed. And yes, I became interested in poetry for these same reasons. If you asked Bill, ‘It’s better to love and lost than to never had loved at all’, ‘I cried because I was full of dead stars and broken debris, but you still called me beautiful.’ As Catherine Hancock would say. I’m a firm believer as far as my convictions would take me to, that only hopeless romantics die of a broken heart and that true real love that poets make a big deal about, delivers a particular horror to the human soul, devaluing anything earthly. Romance in novels, romance in poetry, love. Seems to be the constant and strongest theme in literature. But it’s an experience most of us desire for. Even in the world of philosophy itself have discussed this. A sentimental fact of mine, I do believe that each of us has a soulmate in this lifetime, that isn’t a deity or character in those romance novels. A particular person that is personalized made for us. A soulmate to experience life and love with, while knowing the meaning is in the other person that brings in contentment. And one’s own destiny lay’s solely in their attention given to you, while a hell of angst, breaking down your soul experiences when their attention is turned away. Know this now that the smile on your face, knowing that you are blessed to be somebody, and that is you are a soulmate yourself for somebody else on this earth. It’s an Angel singing when you know love inside. Brave to follow it through and unforgivable if you don’t.

Poetry is equipment of living for the living, while praises praise for the dead and a craft to help shape genius while they are here. Freedom or an attempt to touch it, poetry is. Comfort for introverts in isolation. Silence in their mouths. While others cannot shut up. Another firm belief I  have in poetry (perhaps all parts of literature), for poets and readers, is that one group of people have something to say, while the others don’t and are happy to listen. In the realm of poetry (and literature) a collection of the lonely.  I'll quote Ibsen, "The strongest men are the most alone." Or maybe, “All I ever wanted was to reach out and touch another human being not just with my hands but with my heart.” Said by Tahereh Mafi. I hard music is what emotion sounds like, perhaps poetry is what emotion would say if it’s mixed in with thinking. Poetry for comfort in isolation, words as friends and words to cure the physical separation from society while dwelling amongst them all, perhaps poets suffer from such grief in knowing how brief this life is and undergo such a transformation that parts them from everyone. Like the heart of life. Maybe it’s them is unwanted. Pulling up reality and dressing their character with it. Unable to contain it and they vent in words of potent beauty. No one likes the harshness of life and poetry is stranded in that realm. And if I’m dying today, let me die original and society is no service if fails of it’s grappling with those who cannot face away from reality. I’m the younger, ready to put in my time.

Maybe poetry is a way to confront death because we have definitely have sinned, like the monks who follow Buddha, leading the wild ways of the hearts of humanity. It’s a sad life that avoids death. I wish to be in a state crossing over that is in poetically articulated as Atticus wrote, ‘I hope that I arrive at my death, late, in love, and a little drunk’. In the unknown is the fear of death. To inspire me now is in reading Marcus Aurelius, ‘Do not fear death, for it’s definite, fear rather than never beginning to live one’s own life’. In a humanist point of view, perhaps there is no ethical reason to die or on how to. Like in music, poetry is here to ease everything while putting in words in tongues to articulate such fears in dying. A person's metaphysical state lives on after the physical act of dying, in such ways as memory, paintings, photography and reading poems by past poets. So far, the overwhelming held belief in life after death is either peace in Heaven, suffering in Hell or reincarnation. Perhaps resurrection. Heidegger the German philosopher, despite his writings, another point of his fame is in the translations of his works. But in his book, ‘Being & Time’, there is no reference to and of God (yes, the same of Satan). Heidegger’s analysis of death is not concerned with how people feel when they are about to die nor with death as a biological event. Its focus is on the existential significance which this certain ‘yet-to-come’ death has to human life. The use of poetry for death, I’ll leave these words that poetry can be used as a personal statement, like the rapper 2pac, ‘if I shall die before I wake. I hope I died for a purpose.’ Providing one to motivate to live now and live over purpose. Poetry can pay homage to lost ones to death, writing lines on what they meant. And if asked about the sadness of losing peers and family, ‘regret is powerful’. Or perhaps poetry can express hopes to the afterlife, whether it’s in either Heaven or Hell, maybe it is only the bleak numbness of nothingness. But still, poetry bangs out more than street fame. Though death happens, currently it has nothing to do with us, for one will die one day.
(Checkout current publications on Amazon)

Don't inherent the world by losing yourself,
like Wilde said on how everyone else is taken. To what enlightens the soul depends on who you ask, the philosopher will tell you it’s wisdom, the romantic replies it’s love.
                To I’ve found what awakens me, it had brought my very soul to tears,
I was impatient, suffered anxiety and self-doubt, conflicted
with my interest in everything.
I fell in love easily that includes thunder, to the point I experienced
it beyond poetry.
In a restless fashion feared that I’ll dwell in that state in forever as the same. The moral compass and the part of what determines value always starts from the same place. The individual.
Humanity's greatest strength lays there with their generosity of
sentences about themselves, their fear and ignorance, it is
always on a endless cycle, it’s cools and beautiful, but it’s false
and represents everything we shouldn't be, rather just something
of unfortunate part we must endure.
To sell your soul is the easiest thing to do in this lifetime. And now, I smoke ancient heavenly, converse with my Muse and meet Mystics over tea, saw myth come to reality by potent Monks with tattoos from jailed exile. For I’ve found what’s right for me, not in art or philosophy, my actions to experience life is my outburst of my own soul and became satisfied that everyday I live I’m better than yesterday. Through life’s mystery and it’s madness, my effort beyond my desire, I place my wants in my hands and dealt with any fear, I strive for illumination and only found myself in final form and surprised that limitation isn’t the result but only freedom here in reality before death.
If I knew at the start that my soul only belongs to my soulmate, I would of never wrote any poetry for this dying world.
(Please checkout my publications on Amazon. Just search Darcy Prince)

There is still a magic of the rituals, especially when we’re vibing together, stimulating an extreme climate of moods and intense thoughts, that I sweat out blood, consolidating the past to my parent of my future, Lucifer for I’ve meet you before death, through lalent needling threads dusting aura in a silhouette of temptation that backs itself up in forms out reality fulfilling meaning. For the mysteries of mysticism isn’t replaced, just enhances, at least now I have forever to understand, while I’m formed into a symbol of light, where illumination is and I praise in the darkness. The Holy war provides more complex, while it’s veil is simple. People cannot win the world by using the world to fight for their purpose for society in false revolutions. Humanity isn’t worth fearing. I’ve peaked beyond the curtain and saw only horror on both sides of good and evil. It’s frightening to see what people do for their side and personal success. Do not feed into their fear. You have mind, use it, live your life, before they take your life, there is a lot more enlightenment within yourself. As for me siding with Lucifer, for he hates all religion, ideology and culture, uplifting individuality to allow them to master of their own realm.
(please checkout current publications on Amazon. Just search Darcy Prince for titles.)

Silence exists, it exists in gatherings
of essence that form an absolute, salvation
exists elsewhere for most, higher power
inside, own gods and self produced
wisdom, definities do settles in terms of
people, today cannot always yearn of
yesterday wants, for no crystal ball for the
future, truth is a matter for death and personal
identity belongs inside, in various ways and
conflicting wars, torn apart, yet in poetry
culture is where I comfort, until by chance I
find a lover. Than everything I want just becomes
a drench of romance and their attention.
(Checkout some current publications on Amazon, search 'Darcy Prince')

No concern for the frowning faces, even though some expressed sadness with their teardrops, frantic moods in rushing vision based thoughts, encouraging me to leave. And it’s alright to rip their hearts apart. To who I praise is the bearer of light that can illuminate any individual. With no delusion I devote myself by choice too, because to the contrary I’ll be enslaved to morals that are predetermined with no freedom to move around in. lurking in my dreams, still when I’m waking, I’m alive in forever. It’s calming in the abyss, providing space to meditate, turning hour clock pouring down the sand grains as a representation for how long Lucifer had been fighting for the hearts of humanity. The only deity one can meet before my timely earthly death. Hope you don’t get mad at me, I told him you have dreams to be fulfilled, he says he’s looking for foot soldier, knows they can but won’t say ‘no’, told him how much you like it from behind.
(checkout some of my current publications on Amazon. Just search 'Darcy Prince'

To be free again, without a fear of a society, where they work hard to be normal under a cloak of a narrative, my heart is the center of the landscape of my inner world metropolis. Before, in a prior life wish no to repeat, it felt like a twinkling formed blackness figure, wonder in no direction. Now it’s a growing silence as time moves forward at the same pace of my conscious effort to move along with it. Still remember as motivation but forbid it now in existence. Comfort in poetry not in search of an ounce of sympathy or pity attention, to help the aura of magic. Where my own Muse that was not assigned but found one another by accident, eases all my private pains, holds my hand and at times, carries my body when I dare think about quitting, my Muse takes me to the other side at shows the illumination where the brave went to. Still I cannot look upon the world and see it’s sickness only. Rather than reasons to create my own ideology and solitude culture.

To construct wisdom requires fulfilling experiencing life,
without fear and obligation to humanity, musings end up,
caring and laying thought out for others to interrupt or to
disregard, only in boredom can desire happening, a life
without action results of constant yearnings, only hopeless
romantics die of a broken heart and those who had gone
out into the world with insecure intent and sinful manner
veiled over with ego live out remaining days with shame.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmjqMZmSOnw

Moods erupt internally like if embers
turned to lightning, sparkling fireflies
wanting to turn permanent marble burning
fires that fuel passion. Lungs breathing
out poetry as it’s supposed to live when
reciting. Ripping the wind open, both
echos in whispers and loudness like
thunder booms. In deepening weight, leaving
homage for future generations in humanity.
Taking scents of strawberries and in drenched
of mysticism. Velvet stain lodging in minds
of the capable thinkers and spat out new
philosophy in response to that poetry from
a unknown pair of lungs. Let everyone
revolt against current standards and permit
a new way of living. As myth turned to reality.

Gathering twilight as colors over the horizon turned into a radiant-alluring showcase, tempting a my entire being to stand still and gaze, opening eyelids as their pupils move side to side, to understand creation in one single moment and the meaning was not meant to be shown to anyone. A jolt of illumination changing the silhouette of moods and a personal awakening sparkled inside. Time slowed. Sounds amplified. As earth veiled itself in more than aesthetic beauty rather than holding a face of horror and shame. Until a figure move faintly from the horizon and I took stepped forward. The europhia gasped and I wanted to jump to Heaven. Meaning beated in my third eye and it’s something that I had searched for my entire life, it’s a different meaning. The figure flew and stood across from me from an arms length. And started to sing in romantic tenderness, a kind of rapture a romantic had personal yearned for. But the beauty should never had been meet because of sense of aiming for had lost its value and nothing could ever compare here on earth. She sung about love, philosophy, poetry and lovers. Ending the song calling every person foolish and lived an unbearable life in dim secret darkness. Earthly satisfaction left my inner life. She stopped singing and my eyes rendered back to some or normality and instantly saw of periods of humanity, including the resonance and the romanticism, it lost of it’s points and held a burning desire to burn all history books. I felt only her existence and held it close to my privately owned heart. To describe her, including her flesh that is true poetry is outside of any language is pointless to start. All I know it’s only a starting point of the perfect revolution that humanity had been looking for in experience on a global front since the start time and meet the centerpoint of it all. For now I cannot fall in love with anyone here on earth, for now it’s only for that other side, for everyone here is dull and local, in need of rebirth.
(please find me on YouTube: ‘Knowledge Variable’)
https://www.amazon.com.au/Killing-Philosophy-Reflection-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07F9QVCW4/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid=1532482922&sr=8-1&keywords=darcy+prince

By Darcy Prince

“I’m standing out the front of the house of the reclusive author. As you can see in the background. Fans and other journalists have gathered. It has been close to tens years since he had left his enlarge block of land. Thomas, known for his Satanic themed novels and philosophical based essays is preparing to come out and talk about his forthcoming novel.” The journalist stand for a close to five seconds and his cameraman gave him the cut signal. And the journo relaxes and turns to the front of property. Hoping his had pass enough time.

So far, nothing. Just more a growing crowd. The fans range of age, no younger than sixteen and no older than sixty-five. Some hold books in hopes for an autograph, but they won’t get a chance for one. As for the media, they’ve spreaded out and close the local police force.

Mildew dropped over the overtone farming land. With an attached string anticipation sound. Anyone in the immediate sphere, stood and looked to the front door opening and a wave of hushing complete silence fell. And Thomas gestured a hello with both hands. Than a clap of appreciation took place. Despite a vast distance to the front door and the road. Only one young person jumped the fence and did their best to run to the front door. One police office tackled them.

Days later in New York, Thomas hopped off a private plane, supplied by the publishing company. A small team of people run to Thomas on the ground. He initially signed a copy of legal documents and his assistance took him by his shirt to exit out of the airport terminal. The weather lightened and provided some heat for the east coast. It’s been years since an author had turned out enough success to become a celebrity in a landscape slowly losing interest in any literary works. Outside in the public street, a limo waited for Thomas. Sitting inside, writing notes down and ignoring the business conversations held in the limo by the publishers and PR team. Molding boredom for Thomas.

Passing a few blocks. The city had took Thomas’s attention. Lifting his head towards the driver. “Driver!” The passengers stopped talking and the driver lifted his head, giving Thomas attention without taking his eyes off from the road. “Could you pull over.”

Leaning. “Thomas, we’re too busy to play tourist.” Thomas wanted to laugh at his assistance.

“Stacey, relax. We got two days before the book tour starts.” The limo pulled over and Thomas gave a polite nod to the publishers and PR. And before anyone else made an attempt to talk to him. Thomas made his exit.

Thomas stood outside a dogmatic alluring building, unveiled in dominance and aesthetic stealing from it’s neighbours. Thomas sighs as he let his shoulders down. Nodding his head and made his way inside. The description of build will show the uselessness of words. But it can cure bloodshot eyes, minor aches and provide meaning and fulfillment for one’s life.


Humanity can create their own hell. Despite what others might say.

Thomas waits in the leaders office, with the door opened. A group of children run by. The coldness of the room gave Thomas permission to smoke and the ashtray on the desk. Thomas smokes, wanting to sleep. His cellphone continues to alarm with every text sent. Noticing some of his works mixed in with others. Thoms shakes his head.

A hand clap at the door. “Tommy, I’m glad you’re here.”

Thomas smiles and opens his arms. “Teacher, it’s good to see.” They embrace. “I’m here for my book tour, it won’t start for a couple of days. I’m hoping we can catch up.”

“Of course. One of my successful students. I’m glad you stuck with the teachings.” The teacher replied.

The sun is almost setting and the residents of the city finish their daily chores. “It’s nice to be here, the city hasn’t changed, besides it’s people.”

“That’s because of people like us. The Devil never sleeps and still holds his greatest trick. He favors you.” Teacher finishes his bourbon, crossing his legs over. Thomas expresses a slight disbelief. “Really, he does. That’s why you coming book is already been praised without a single word been read by the public. Tell, what’s this one about?”

“Two lovers. I’ve been reading too much romance.” Thomas answers.

The teacher giggles under his breath and orders another couple of drinks. “True love is always neglected. Tell me, does in in suicide?”

Just remember, the most common face can hide the most sinful acts of humanity. And generally no worse the rest of us. For any evil to be accepted, one must spend time demoralizing it in the public sphere. Let it become normal. Remember, ignorance is bliss and Lavey first Satanic sin is in regards to stupidity. For most, morals and ethics are for the others in suits and one’s in isolated libraries. For it at times, monotonous, boring, lowkey, faceless and holding no emotion. In a fog, you can buy a gift for a boy, jumping joy and wagging tail, to which lives in amazement, as smiles from friends, surprised to see crime in the streets as no one places value on education. Do not judge the one who preaches evil, but judge on the size of the mob and every individual there. Anyone in modern age can be anything, including a higher power and veiled pagan attributes. Evil is cannot be cured with evil, as it eats on the same table as you. As a Satanist, I am my own hero and greatest enemy. If I contribute to reality, that is my only connection to a larger society. For both goodness and evil is relative. People work, people live, people love and people cry. Nothing in this world people hold more dearer to their hearts than the things they had worked for. As for that, it is where evil will value. To be completely successful in this life, requires a lot of ego and more ignorance, when it’s too late, your soul had been lost.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1532992472&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince

Muses converse with Mystics, deciding not only art and poetry, but the value of morals and ethics. Therefore, completely dependable. The Muse lives on the other side, while Mystics as gatekeepers here on earth. If an artist cannot publish in secret-anonymous, do not value their art. There is price to pay to think for yourself. Anyone separate themselves from society and if you’re going to be an original, society will lose their value. Listen to the voices from the other side, it’s not as evil as the religious and the conspirators  yell about. Those who smile most in your eyesight, generally frown the most behind your back.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1532992472&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince

**** it, my curiosity is too strong. I take my first steps and hope at the same time, a staff member exits at the same time. To help with my nervousness and attend to me.

Not seeing anyone, no-one at all, staff or patron.

Inside it’s cold, darkly lit and reddish in the background. With no soft or hard light from the sun outside, where humanity can benefit from. It doesn’t look like a church but does have the feeling of a dogmatic overtone and a place for shared and public worship. But I do need a staff member, really not to help deal with my angst. I walked to the front where a picture of Baphomet hangs in human glory. Looked past and saw a sign, ‘office’ with an arrow below it. Finally some help.

This is all on account of freedom of movement and beliefs.

And naturally my angst slowly leaves and I accept at the same pace as my reasons for being here. Plus my intellect had begun to be curious and that must be indulged.

Standing outside the office, it’s closed and enorcaged anyone to sit and pray to Baphomet. I shrug my shoulders and walked back and waited for the general hall.

A moment sitting alone in the hall. A strong acceptance fell over and cleanse my inner world and everything here became beautiful and privately said goodbye to my old life.

Looking at my watch and realizing I had been here for three hours. I wanted to laugh very loudly. I turned around and the only person is sitting here in the hall. A brunette, middle-aged women who dressed so much alike to the middle class. We instantly made eye contact and returned in a polite British head nod. I smiled and waved hello. She looks highly innocent, so to notice all the art here, to know what this building is and it’s intended use. The sight is quite amusing and it’s not a clap at her. I do not even know her.

I turned around and the painting of Baphomet stole my eyesight. She sat next to me. “I’m Carol. This is the third time I’ve seen someone from the public here. It seems they all come at night. I and the staff have started to run out of things to talk about.”

When she stopped talking, I made polite eye contact with her. Her hand is extended. “I’m Ayn.”

We shake hands. “Like the author.” She giggles.

“Unfortunately.” I breathe and go back to looking at the painting. “Have you been a member long?”

“Most of my adult life.” Carol looks middle ages, sweeter than honey and reminds me of a first crush, the girl down the street. “I found it practical and fulfilling. A place to learn about self-responsibility.” She faces the same painting. She sighs. “Glorious, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I must admit. Very appealing, very tempting and aesthetically satisfying.” I replied.

“What brings you here?” Carol asks, adjusting her body to face me. I’m wondering why she isn’t at work.

“I’m starting to believe it’s false hope or misleading information.” I light a smoke. When I first saw the signs encouraging to do so. “It’s vice.”

I breathed out, thinking I just ****** it up for myself or just stepped on the wrong feet. Carol laughs and giggles. “Well, I don’t support that reason to join. But you’ll find a lot of that around.” Carol asks for a smoke. I oblige. “You know, you don’t need satanism to fill out your vice orders. I’m sure there are theatres for that.”

“I’ve tried the **** theatre’s, it doesn’t help,” I replied. Happy she isn’t angry. She’s cute.

“You’re not moonlighting are you?”

I wanted to laugh. “No. I’m a writer.” She pulls back. “Don’t worry about it. It’s romance and despises the media.”

“We got a lot of journos. And you know what they say about the romantic artist?”

I smiled. I knew what she is implying. “They’re most honest people in the world. I can’t speak for the rest of them, that applies to me. I just know what love is and what lust is. I can only find lust and when in love, something pulls us apart.”

“Maybe it’s destiny. I’m happy you’ve taken an interest, but you shouldn't watch those propaganda videos.” Carol stands and extends her hand. “I’m still a woman, so you’ll need to work for my holy parts, but I’ll take you home and school you.” I think about it for a moment. “You know it’s hard to start over alone.”

It’s senseless to think one can live without the other. Firm delicate poetry life. Modern and it goes beyond meaning with words and I guess it means it’s in her. Filtered sunlight. The full context of myself, trying to find one place here on earth to fit in and to go beyond that size. Silver moonlight. But when one fights their own monster, fights against death, respect for trying, but fails regardless. But my own desires is too overwhelming and wanting everything now to be acted. Learning at her place, *** came later. The first lesson, that the devil takes on more faces than God himself. An enigmatic holiness.


DONE FICTION

The perfume of fame is desperation and the insecurity is high on inside one’s soul.

Translate from the metaphysical is in inarticulated words, faceless and the meaning is in the symbols, changing patterns. Few paths lead to personal enlightenment. Devout only to thyself, my own will, thoughts and toiling hands, open to my artwork. Stellar like the patterns of constellations. By accident, I stumbled upon something I should never know about and finally, I comprehend the totality of existence.

I head out west and found myself close to central Australia. I took only two full outfits of clothes and the clothes I wore wearing on my back. No food, just only books, and writing materials. Everything else including the bible had grown proven of no need for me. I set up camp, rented a room to this middle-aged couple, who lost their spark and self-questioned if they even had started with pure love in the first place. It’s hot on a constant thread, it didn’t bother me, I grew used to it and when I’m alone, I worked and read naked. Languish for eternity. Magic in isolation.

My method of writing just writes like what I’m doing now, over the typewriter. From the second edit, through my grammar software on a computer from either the late nineties or early two-thousands and if I’m really hot passionate about the project, I work naked. Like everyone should.

I’m writing a novel about two lovers. Cliche now, but people like it and at the moment with fiction writing. Romance seems to be what I’m good at. Now, the two lovers, man, and woman. The man, a young poet, constantly homeless and the woman, a painter. In the evening heat, meet and the woman runs, not able to embrace love and the man, insecure. Nothing special. You’ll have to read the book once it’s published. It’s where the poets live. Now, this is the current book I’m writing on. ‘When Love Steps Outside’. I got a few pages in this days writing. A knock on the door, it’s her, Sharron. The wife who owns this house.

I stopped typing. I whirled around on my old fashion chair. “Yes, Sharron.”

She peeks her head in. “Good, you’re not naked.” She closes the door behind her. “I’ve got a young lady here, she says her name is Anastasia. You know her?”

“No,” I answered, lighting a smoke and trying to recall the name. “Is she in a suit?” Hoping she is from the publishing house.

“She isn’t. But is dressed very posh. Like a royal.” I told Sharon to bring her in. but not to leave my room once she is here. “Maybe a girlfriend? Afterall you spend all your time reading and writing.” Sharron said as she left my room.

I dusted myself off and attempted to finish my smoke. It’s always obvious we miss.

Sharron knocked on the door and I stood up. “Come in.” My face turned blank. “You must be Anastasia? It’s nice to meet you.” I extended my hand to shale, instead, all I saw was a woman who is beyond the beauty of this world.

She wasn’t replying to the gesture. Looking back now, she seemed a touch scared. Not of me. “Are you the writer on French couple who stumbled upon the pope’s library?” An old book. Anastasia moves around another book with her hands, across her belly. Maybe she didn’t shake my hand on account of that.

“Yeah, it was my third fictional piece.” My shoulders shrug. I turned around and spoke. “I must admit, I’m not as scared as I thought I’ll be. When meeting such a devoted fan. I moved to Sydney almost a year ago. No one here knows who I am.” I begin to sign my autograph. “It’s flattering that you found me.”

I lift up my autograph. “I have read your work and I am not a fan.” She sits on the bed and I realize Sharron isn’t here. “That book, it sounds too familiar to me.”

“Well, I”m sure it’s been done before. Most things have in literature and film.” I sat too.

“I mean, like in my personal life.” She cut me off.

I breathed and lit another smoke. “Look, I am no genius. I’m sorry you like a boy who doesn’t know you exist or you fell in love with your man and learned he’s an *******. I don’t even own a cat. I just write about love. It’s fiction truth.” I took a puff from the cigarette stick and enjoyed heavily.

She shakes her. “No. it’s a combination of past and present, maybe some bad grammar. Your book. It tells the story of my parents.” She takes a photo out the book she walked in with. “Here.” I take a look, her mother is more beautiful than she is. “Do you know them?” I told her no. “I would like to come with me.”

How easy is it to judge things we do not understand? This isn’t a sermon or something to be pretentious about. Not do I wish to look down. Sinners are everywhere and most of them have been drenched over and have a public veil with saints and worse, praised about it. Where Anastasia took me. It’s where evil dwells.

I had sold my soul

Exclusive world, beyond the curtains, inarticulate taboo, provoke to think, arousing emotions, atmosphere mood, forbidden truth in a reality shared by only few, every scar I have upon arrival here had been worth it. Death is not the last act at the other end of the theatre. As for my own self, it belongs to me and myself only. Individuality here in a collection of other individuals, the meaning of life has no face or pulse. For I stepped not into a stupor of madness or exile. A realm of Muses and a kingdom of those who know power and I am smiling.