One person finding a path
for
morals, improvement, humility,
could bring down
the wall of vice, changing
the whimper into a bang

Duration of life, metaphors in actions,
linger thought for memory, paradox.
Profusely in search of defined meaning
to one’s own being, refined. Fireflies
and moths. Deepening dejection, truth.
To eat the apple or not, instead of to be.
Changing owls. Awaken in constant
thread in meditation and conscious.
Death is one final act. Take me to that
other place. I’ll only wait for my lover.

lover thy,
don't know what to do
or say,
im just happy around you

Could happiness be counted elsewhere, outside one’s own inner-world? Developing more. Secrets in the eyes. Writing poetry from flower petals and moths eating dreams.
Glory in nature.
Artists stepping outside normal living.
Living with one’s duality, insignificance and their attributes that contribute to reality.
Still rising, not to speak with violent words.
Risking
with
vulgarity  
bitterness
Inside.
To be in pursuit with confliction and burdens pressed upon shoulders. Romance only wanted. Love in the final endgame. Touching existence.
Bleaching thoughts, dripping from the ears and mouth. Prepping to purge. Stars of the night.
Painting Van Gogh.
Careless words spoken in poetry.
Recklessness mastered. So goodbye for now. Exiled more. In volunteer terms. High art raged. Dropping off poems for suspecting confusion.  And if I shall die before my own meaning is found. Cry none. I’m not hard to find.

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.

“It’s far better, to do your own duties imperfectly,
than to master the duties of another.”
Lord Krishna

Even just to live, takes extreme summouring
threads of courage. To have that same courage
to be self-produced, is even rarer. Without
anxious dependence, as this present, unfolds
into the future, parting from the past. To stop,
for a single second, to have romance, under
candlelight. Blessed. There is no easy way
from earth to Heaven and to dance with the
stars, that humanity call ‘constellations’. Do
not debate it, those who dare to live originally
is the brave, without fear of persecution. Material
wealth slaves the fool and has the potential to
master the wise, the poorest person is the one
who still wants more. The sun still rises and
even on sin, it still shines. To whoever has ever
experienced love, knows how to turn themselves
into a muse to poets. And there I go, to cross these
plains in utter exile, in hope to avoid death
(knowledge variable)

When in love without a lover,
all one can do is write poetry,
talking over one’s heart.

Blaze a blunt, because they’re all in, finally made it, feeling good, like I wanted. Out to pour honey over the silk, be back before lunch time and call a pusherman. Making ends at the last straw. The wind will now your thoughts, as soon as they leave the tongue.
Voracious mass spreaded in poetry. Produced thyself, for myself, crystallized in memory. Like my emotions had been froze, harsh times in hardships had my heart still and muted. For every word written in hope to explode profound sensations. Burn. Smile at awareness. Heaviness in wisdom, whirlwind of poetic allures.
Infusing in the veins of others. Images of me printed on your memory. Invictus enigma. I stayed closed up, poetry is a selling tool. It’s been a long time. I open up for those who toil in their efforts. Eyes tightly sealed. Staggering in my absurdity. Plucked from obscurity. Where you lived once in the void of life, where they all in strange ways placed value in the most mundane actions, in a place now where reality had collided with mythological events. Turning out folklore.
My entire life has not been in protest of human principles.
Just saw the worth in innovating originality, to go out make something of thyself. Because the life lived without confront it’s destiny and conquering my own personalized fate, was not worth one simple-basic moment.
As for those I’m not apart of. Do not weep now or never. It’s such a waste.  I left to cross over. Rumors spark chatter of death.
(knowledge variable)

Perhaps poetry is destined to be the hopeless romantic,
a duration meant to endure, not changing a persona,
it just lives, as it’s be, as it should. To live, it’s suffering
in private burdens, while we smile at brief moments of
complete contentment in our singular package of formed
figures. Poetry is a derivative serving ever so few.
(knowledge variable)

Vanishing yearnings, losing sense of time, provoke a myth,
impending a little apocryphal. The sun rises and it goes. A
breathe that creates shadows, covering mountains, something
that isn’t learnt. Flawed genius. Goats cry. Mystics chant
songs that praise. A faint taunt of rage, before turning to sobs
and whimpers. Gloom in darkness. Sin to be paid. Nothing
to do, but change in shift structures.

Believe in eyesight, believe now, if not, not to worry. Garments
drop from the air, blood replacing rain, this is not to express a
furious despair. When evening is not, muddy and dark waters,
where children swim, a distraction. Adapt not. It will not reward.
Murmur of voices carry in the wind, as the earth prepares to
stop spinning, it’s prays and nothing else. Horror turns to most
resistant to a religious observer.

A collection of suffering and nothing else.  

On the other side, debates, battles, things we cannot invent
in our minds eye, argue over us. Their decision is based on
our actions. This is democracy. A flavour of goodness. Brewed
from unholiness. Tragedies remind us, constantly on death.
Yet. We all die one day. Despite our thoughts, intents and
actions leading towards it. We can’t we die together?

As for my only issue with poetry,
it encourages people to join the
next generation of romantics. Loving the beauty of love and all those sighs.
Never
to
experience
love
with
their toiling hands, rubbing the poetic flesh
of their lover. During the exchanges of poetry.
(knowledge variable)

Oh poet, always in that stream of mood, a stranger,
in a place that’s overwhelming and never asked a
thought on it’s own design. Given life freely, born
like everyone else. Yet, still in exile over this globe.
A dark yawning. A mundane normality. Without a
lust for anything, going about it’s daily business,
without a name. Do not wonder too close to them.
Stay with poetry. For someone needs to mix
emotions, sensations and thoughts together and
take the time to articulate. For the rest, are too
busy fitting in.
(knowledge variable)

come to me,
if it comes easy,
it shall go out
hard,
pain.

Kicking up the dust,
learnt about married life
from the prostitutes, I never
touched the flesh of
****** beauty that the flesh itself
is poetry & when
you grow for the better is when
their devils come to get you
& when I die, know that I never
wanted anything else
besides the company of your presence,
heartless when I saw
them bugging out, hard lessons
taught when you’re aware of how easy it
is to be ease
when there is suffering,
I saw them coming &  I put up my hands,
‘I was only looking for love,
I hope you understand’.
They’re become crack, like the time
before that. One of them said, ‘don’t you
dare say a word, you’re giving us
your right hand, don’t you dare cry wolf’.
Afterall the growth, beating real good,
poetry was made
for attention, Heavens gates are inside
their smiles, it put me ahead of the
pack, on track, but I
promises those aren’t your friends,
now don’t hate,
reality has decided for you to wait,
but couldn’t handle the
weight.

Because I am with myself all the time. Everything I do is needless effort, your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, it turns away like running feet in the mist, seeing God for the first time, I cannot see in your soul, do not enter mine, you may or may-not find what you want.

The only person I seek to be accepted by,
is thy lover. Until then, I’ll do my best, to
accept myself. Conscious and waking in this
reality, we all contribute to, unconscious of
it or not. The poppy’s break from sealed
cases. Muse, what period of mankind
is this? It feels like almost a crime, to talk
about true love, where everything seems
to be based at aesthetic judgment, in
layman's terms, ‘face-value’. Will I quit?
They’re labelled me a major threat. Can
remind people what society has made
them forget.

Oh poetry, grant me no greatness, no skill to outshine
any other artist, for humility should meet my own soul.
Rather, every act of mistake, character flaw, have each
unlived moment I experienced shown and glorfield in
the echoes of eternity. Poetry, provide me passion now,
for my Muse needs rest of teachings, reminding that
any act now, could be my last. I believe death is a constant
in thy life.
(knowledge variable)

Not being dead, generally doesn’t mean you’re alive, gold is not always noticed. But someday, the world will end. Poets have been mysteriously quiet, outside of comfort. I shut my eyes, I part from this world, where I was born and everyone had grown accustomed to and I become alive. Freedom, I shouldn’t get lost in the gift of dreaming, what happens to a life given freely and never to live? Poetry shouldn’t be a derivative of emotion vented, a poem shouldn’t be continued to go unread, a poet should be upheld as some random romantic, knowing the harshness of life in intimate forms. Freedom, for I live here too, along the side of reality.

At times poetry, I need something more than the courage
to endure what life presents itself to me, a series of events, for I want to be my own
    person, than being apart of something larger
    the only thing I can do good
     Is writing something in poetics.    
The wonder is filled with everything I don’t know. Initiated now as a outlaw.
Poetry, kiss me, breathe inside with cello melodies, haunting fashions, not of trends. I’m content to say good-bye.  Parting memories. Until the end of time.
Maybe it’s the individual in me.
We all wish for the pain to go away, but I cannot under it, all the time.
In those lonely times and facing death, the tears, the sadness, the regrets, wanting redemption and complete forgiveness, wanting to start from scratch. It’s all the same thing shared in humanity. We’re all going to die.
Rare is the one that wants forgiveness for the everyone involved with life.
I’m a kisser of romance. I’m a ******. It's easy to fall in love. As for that. I’ve been behind closed doors with most that I meet. The heart wasn’t built for heartbreak and the secrets of others.                      The civil servant, the priest, the maid of honour, the best man, whoever, they should up forced, press upon, harsh and hard thoughts and the spouse should always second guess. Until all that lust is cleanse out.                       Oh how little love there is in today's marriage. I’m laughing as a ******. Strapped with poetry and I romantic lean back, hanging with original romantics. Giving love only to purest romantics. They’ve got no love for you.
                                           Life itself, a blessing and a burden.
                                           It’s the same for everyone you know.
                                           For I felt the most holy feeling any
                                           Human could feel for another. And it allowed me to hold faith that everyone has a soulmate, someone that is just made for them. Wondering this earth’s surface.
The world is overfilling itself with people and life.
Grandeur in poems that are written and left for everyone to find.
Everyone is capable of sinning.
Knowing the Devil.
Trust me, not everyone wants you to be an individual, unless it’s like them.
A talent show, no. make waffles, with my hands, poems are my wetspot, don’t miss the chance to walk away into the world, there’s better things, but it’s a matter of how you think, don’t forget, yourself has to go with your better. If there’s a revolution going on, join in, even if it’s evil, there is revenge, but there’s something satisfying about seeing your teachers upset and especially seeing for the first time, they’re not as cracked up to be higher and holy. Life has a veil. I *** hard, like Lisa Simpson, I’ve meet Princess Di and it’s the first thing I said. And prayed harder for Princess Kelly, but I said it in neither English or French.
(knowledge variable)

Deeper the despair,
reality is more vivid.
Closer to grief,
the more love is valued.

Emotions made tender, but fair, fearing not the outside,
to what is felt inside, to play in eternity, to think in infinity,
be only that a paradox is, nothing else, nothing more, nothing
less, attempt to avoid despair and crying mood. As for you,
Bill, if the world is a stage, than the death penalty only applies
to the casting director. There is greatness outside poems,
romance too, sunburnt smiles and laughing memories.
Though for now, I shall write only about my death, fear, insecurity,
fault and flaws in written poetry. Not for comfort in. Just glittering
drops of silver stars, as for others to benefit from. It is worrying
only to be a paradox, living within immortality.

Full of life, vibrant and radiant, grew up and grew apart,
to both of our surprises, I took control and went out,
making something of myself, there’s bitter resentment
in your voice, to everytime you speak. Now we barely
keep in touch. Acting like I’ve got be living for the block.
Devil in your grin, Satan in you lies. How come you look
with hateful envy? How come, it’s my fault of what you
did with your life?  Every time I go to embrace, you turn away.
Where were you when I needed love?
(There we both came from the same place, it’s the money
and the struggle got us changing places. People yield to
trends, sins committed, people attempt to repent, but they
recommit to sins, I guess it’s their essence and it's the way
it is, I knew my cousin was on dope, I lived in poverty.
Providing reasons to become a ****** as the poor nature,
Suffocates me while I’m clean and I broke free. Life goes
on. I’m alive again, writing in stride, it’s adrenaline based
motivation, I’m little awakened than most. I just wanted to live.)

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.

To who I love,
I go beyond cherishing them,
I spoil them,
till till they’re exhausted.

If you never experience real love, you’ve never lived,
never been heartbroken, never attempted to find love.
Poetry created from both lovers and the heartbroken.
Destroying dice, never kills chance, destiny can,
cellos and tenors, emotions in sound, thoughts lay
dormant, till spoken philosophers moan, exiled spirits
spread with velvet and scarlet, a spotless spree of
rough dawns and silver-golden glowing romance nights.
Novelists and drink coffee with cinema, speaking with
French conversations. Returning, making love with
all the farewells. Life itself, a deep sleep for some
and crazy, like wildfire mystics for the rest, who do
more than desire to live life. Rather, I’ll sleep now,
awake for too long, in attempt to outdo my lover.
Piercing blue, heavy on awakening, pressing upon
me, poetic words for poetry and memories now,
for nostalgia in the future, present experience in crazy
contentment, untamed where that's the only way
to experience someone you love.
(Knowledge Variable)

Without the strangeness of that horrifying feeling
about truly fully in lover, that bears me ****,
life would be dull and I dare say, pointless. For
poets singing music and forgetting about writing,
are generally the ones that have dived deep.
For the tenor never singing again, weeping as
they write love poems for thy lovers. I could not
live in a world, where everybody wears the same
face.
(knowledge variable)

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

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

Not everyone is made to measure
the infinite, for those who do. Are
generally viewed upon as a paradox.
Mastering freedom, equaling to their
mystical duties, higher than humanity.
Human wealth parallels human desire,
I saw Mozart surpass everything we
know, reaching immortality, passing
human fame. Now I want do it to.

(Knowledge Variable)
I can remember when the sun rose for
the first time in my life, it overloaded
my whole being with neolife, along
with neo-thoughts and sensations, I
burst into tears, disregarded my past
and it to the evening stars, like those
little rocks on the road I just walked on,
it has stayed in past, like it should,
dispersed with the supernovas. From
than, some people I saw, afflicted like
me, lived more fuller as the rest, are
seen as the walking dead, as they should
be perceived. The thought of the world,
where everyone’s muse lives, continues
to weigh me down, the act of pursuing
Residency there lightens as every step
Taken. Any act of art that I undertake,
is mere step towards it, like in every
moment I continue to develop my
true and original self, leads me towards
the deepening of my own awakening.
Now by experiencing the present, it
becomes more of a parent to my future.
Pounding heart, breathless scenes of
enchantment, I can only change those
who pay attentions and walk in, with
or without fear.  I can only open up,
like the sun, to whose make effort to
do the same with me. Darker the life,
the brighter it shines, deeper the bitterness,
the closer they becoming a god.

Falling like sunlight
Fondness.
Tonness. Intervals of kindness.
To be in the library, is be in the center of the knowledge of world. Dexterity.
Decilate in art.         Accidental philosopher.     Diplomat to the outsides.
Breathless figure.
Inarticulate sounds. Fluttering. I lust for poetry. Over influcration. Embellish in romance. An enchanted landscape. A place to escape. Forgetting the world’s troubles. Inspiring colours for painters. Strong affections, enough power to break mountains. Deliberate.  
Child to romantic soil
A child to hope,
rude poem,
Lover
creator of ballads and a voice to those who remained in faith to our love
that explodes inside. Thou shall be in poetry, a following, a celebration of finding love.
Faithful.
Never
to
give
up.
What new experiences can be made, from out of it?
Waking conscious and worth saving.
Lesser people wander aimlessly to the mundane and daily living of life.
No more, where meaning and contentment is away from us. Self-doubt, second guessing, the unknown wanting. Parted and given us it’s words it will never return.
Awakening happening in common people.
Wisdom like a philosopher,
patience,
like a monk.
Honey for the world. Silk flowing over lovers.
Not a mythical pedigree, changing into mythical logic fame
Rising above those outside, with moth-eaten dreams attached to them
Romance flowing here, inside of us,
innovating ourselves, to a self, not yet fully conceptualize.
Under lamps that shimmer along the theatre district or at the painting corners, using every colour or shade one could touch.
Yawns between lovers. Declaring new sensations, as we stare at one another, peeking into the souls.
Acting on love, in endless ways.
Imagine, living a life, no matter of one’s rank and all ignorance drips, vices drop and died. With everything you’re seeing, is a tempting beauty and it’s fruits is beyond to what one is expecting. So far, nothing in us defines us, only musings inside.
A scent from butterflies smiling filling out our immediate presence. Soft spaces and we speak of cello music, holding violets, unable to look away.
Luminous in rich olive’s, magnetic and yet, highly ******. Always more than something we write in lines of prose. ******* to one another, despite being free in the search of love and truly being who we are meant to be. As it turned out. We’re in each other’s life, trapped in the cage of the others inner-world, drowning in holy love.
Instead of a call, living in each other is the process of healing towards illumination in rebirth.
They are the poets of love,
we are the actions of those poems.
That are always too slow
and our soul is spreaded over, too
many poems.
Muses, let us innovate,
as you allow them, to
emulate, outside Eden,
footprints over earth. Turning together, presing footprints on earth, naked in the ****.
I mind how I spend my time,
if it’s with you, the meaning I know now, is experience,
bear stripped heart
outside your presence, I experience the Devil’s revenge.
And I begin to
resent life
and tear myself down to my knees, sobbing for forgiveness.
Love has no need or time, for suffering.
Angels rubbing their eyes, to make sure this is no dream. An empire to last. Love now, as if forever exists. Echos in interstellar.  Devil in a hurry. Poetry flourishing, like a flower in the desert. Beauty in a singular spot. Silence and solitude. Painting. Open piano.
Quantity of dust and ashes, time clocks on.
Poetry is the written salt along to Heaven, maybe Hell.
Social maze. Landscapes of emotions. Thinking thoughts.
Wasting no genius.
Under the rain of beauty.
Dazzling and eyes who ventured to read, with a wild spirit, self-wishing to self-tame. Lovers are always infamous.
Delicacy in touching with thy hands, dispensing in romance. An essence of everything, I see clearly. Unable to turn away. I’m left alone. Most are peasants when it comes to love. Yearning to soak in a lovers arms.
Dragging streets, out of a smell. Wider places in vast population. I’m alone in a crowd, where everyone else had labelled them ‘humanity’. Reflecting wealth, freedom, grandeur and the arts. In poverty, sorrow, friends and pain.
More refined everyday.
Spontaneous life.
Violent blue eyes. Tilting your head up. Glittered with hope and expectation. One gesture, shining rays of sun, falling upon you, made for paintings, immortalized in my memory. The greatest poem, in the eyes of the romantics, is always expressed in the action of their soulmate. For that is never to be shifted. Costing the world it’s own value, including the wonder to the cosmos.
Maybe it’s a distant destination to fall in love. Complete, whole, true and pure. Within what poets say and performed outside poems. An invincible manner. Where sun rages. Moon silver glow. Composed to be transfixed on love. Dogma spoken from her mouth. Kisses as baptism. Hearts as altars. Landlord over my soul. The be all, to end only me. Living here, but, it does not seem like reality. It is. Not in poetic fashion. Nor romantic. It is, truly musings. For we are the ones doing so. Credited by Angels. Bathing us, songs for prophets. Ruining the taste for earth. An odyssey. Labyrinths. Myths. Folklore. Rumours. Stories. Full circle. Arch of eternity. Burning and raging. Doubting no more. Feathers scattered across this land mass and ocean full water earth. Our inner worlds are ours, no others. It’s where we keep the real poetry. Blessed. Everything else, it’s in the other side, unseen to most. Besides mystics and muses. And a couple of monks. Running art, faster than the wind is blowing.
Conflicting poems.
Obscure on purpose.
Erratic, like thy moods.
Beauty flushes.
Pearls of wisdom.
Dying.
Dancing stars and forgotten poems.
Savouring each moment in thoughts and memories. Recover from a life unlived. Spotlight.
Anxious to improve.
Compassion, toiling bells. Bouncy eyelashes.
Sphinx,
claps,
soul.
Repress the image of me.
Existing in thy mind. Painful rose. Tilting. Stumbling to touch life that has never been lived. Unequal destiny. Flaunting. Presenting a face for earth. Bursting.
Freedom is demand, freedom isn’t here.
Lovers in the third eye.

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

beauty
making things love,
it doesn't mean its love,
its beauty only

tinkerbell,
she's a substitute for the real thing,
she doesn't exist

The artist knows how to play a poor hand well. In utter style, causing envy.
On rainbow edge. Knowing truth beyond illusion. The surface mingles along
painting colours, wishing it would drop and fall over this earth's surface. Moan
and sigh. Existing art, modern magic.
(knowledge Variable)

Pain is long and deep, it broadens itself, at self-will, running wild

      motivating any artist to dream, poets dream long and before acting with
grandeur and in youth, there’s nothing but dreams,

                                      as lust doesn’t cost a thing    until all that youth drys up

and the ability to stop dreaming isn’t felt, just aging

to achieve harmony in this life, one must struggle for years, especially in poetry, where they can all articulate love, like the Tenor or the Cellist, over composed symphonies. And the ******’s praise them all.

                               my heart is in my hand, because it’s pierced
                               those who have content, are the ones who
                               dared to live in the first place and I’m still hung
                               up on you, because those who’ve lived, seem
                               to have experienced love, my heart is caught
                               providing a helping hand to write any poem.


      People had made love without poetry, because lust is easier.

                              And when awareness kicks in, it will be too late and poets join time to mock them with heavy laughter.


    
                  I grow tired of waiting, fatigued after actions with efforts of affection


Life goes on


No-one likes the lovers lost in love, because it reminds them,
of what they don’t have, wondering if the love is wild and roaring
or if it took their youth to tame. No one likes the lovers lost
in love, because it can devalue any romantic piece, those
lovers in ****** acts, intimately fusing their souls together,
getting to know the ecstasy of illumination and addicted to
sparking awakening in each other. For no one likes anyone
in love, for their souls are free and without void and despair,
so they shun those lovers out, in return those lovers build
a world of their own, forgetting the earth for the rest of
humanity, never to fit in again. Can you love a smile? Can
you love a glance? Holding hands? Would you tame beauty?
For without love, the law means nothing and the poets will
turn out as serial killers. For no one likes people being truly
in love, because it reminds them what’s without.

                          I can read any poem, for such things as love, is not written,
   only expressed in actions, whispered in the ears of night,
                                 spoken by the mouths, who’ve been to the horizon
                                 and back.
Only in love, where it can strip anyone down to the ****, bearing to the world, all their faults, sins, mistakes and regrets, revealing all their secrets and transcend into a saint. A Muse for the world. I don’t know about you, to what I think about those first kisses between yourself and your lover, is conversation  between Angels, closing lips, each other’s breathes felt lightly pressed upon skin, and the Angels sing when the lips are closed, holding hands and finally the delicate souls can meet and begins to feel safe for the first time.
             And everyday sounds, turn into love songs, that we’ve grown to accustom
  to listen to, without knowing their meaning. Living now, like life ends at the end of the day, you can blame fate for falling in love or you could just go out and experience love. It’s a place that we all ache to go, twinge at the sight of it, love involves the energy of any supernova that births beauty on site, creating memories for poets, adding
charm to this present, parenting the future, dragging things up from the heart, when we dared not to and finally for the first time, you shrug your shoulders and let go.

                            As for anyone telling that you have to work for love.
                            Slap them as hard as you can. Than recommend them
                            a good lawyer and a young lover for their spouse.

(knowledge variable)

Dreams, the friendly version of the ghosts in unfinished business. Constructing ****** minds and arguing morals, while privately respecting the Devil. Shaping poems, turning ethics to ashes. Sweeping fashions over this world.
Well done. Life given freely to living souls. Death is owed. We’re all in debt. The forbidden fruit always tastes better and generally more successful.
It’s too bad.
Dissent friction. Sparking life. Duality of individuals. I’ll keep going back. I’ve looked behind the curtain and saw everything evangelical. Faith not required. Dogma becomes an addiction. Conformity in actions of order-impressions. Laughs and hugs.
And if a philosopher is asked, reality is depending on perceptions.
Power and freedom are this world's best lovers. Enticed drawn in by people.
For some, the difference between God and the Devil. One can be meet before the act of dying as the other is waiting for you to cross over to be judged. Following one will provide freedom here on earth as the rest compensate to be completely corrupted. Don’t sin in my steps. I’m going to be punished by hard-living. Best kept secrets are told in tender moments after ******* sessions. I’ve got nothing but love for the mystics in penitentiaries, soldiers of the century. I’m directly organized and their husbands will never, because I got away. When I die, teardrops will soak into earth, I’ve got meaning in exile. I’m long gone.

To poetry,
poor writing it,
rich in culture

In retrospect, if you had asked me what I
wanted, I’ll ask for endurance. My past
seems so pointless now. My face fades,
my soul drips away, the routine of another
survival is underway. I just changed worlds.
At least I know now, sometimes life, all
you need is to endure it.

An inward secret figure, lurking in the light, formed by sunbeam
rays, glittering the world with sparkles of gold. Inflating the very
importance on living. Meaning in poems, without words speaking
in melodies speech. Emerging in utter beauty, sourced from one’s
character. Spilling into one’s flesh. Distracted in one’s ambitions.
Building value, that’s all too human. Despite truth attained inside.
The outside flows of filling actions, producing praise in other.s
Personality is a veiling persona, playing the part, a life is one
continuous scene. Devotion, admiration, passions, all tingeringly
human. Though it takes one person, one glance, one conversation,
one interaction by another, in it’s accidental ways, normally one
stops to stutter and flushes inside, boiling redness, learning how
mundane they had lived, pointless it all was, finding another
purpose, unexpectedly from another. No middle way, on the
spectrum of extreme, wanting to **** the other, for being something
others aren’t. Creating love in a world made only for lovers.
Meeting fear for the first time. Understanding poetry without having
reading them. Colours alive. So we rose above, unable to commit
to a life that society had laid out. Never again are we alone in
our own lives, destined to be normal, living on the brink of void.
We create poetry in our own hands, crossing over to the muses
heaven.
(knowledge variable)

nothing more to say,
everything to gain,
nothing to weep for,
i got no answers

Two worlds collide in one single moment
when two give into their love, binded and
powerless to avoid such holy power. Give
a slight laugh, to learning that it could
happen outside Heaven. Unlocking hearts
and speaking it’s language. Outside of
poetry, forgetting the melancholy life in
a loud roar towards to neolife, retreating
that breathe by leaning in for a kiss as
opening gates to the souls to meet and
make love. To live alone, outcast to this
world where the rest are sharing, blind to
real love that poetry had attempt to teach
them, without asking for anything in return.
Where the lovers gestures, emotions,
thoughts and private world, spark such
great works of poetry, that will get made by
active Muses, surely humanity will not ignore,
though I’m sure they will. Real love to find
and to know, is rarer than finding myth in
reality. Behind closed doors of minds in marriage,
sing songs unwillingly, of what’s different
to the veils they dress in.    
(knowledge variable)

To be in pursuit in my own destiny, to break away
from my dreams. Proclaiming my inner world as
my state. Land walked over. Vagabond. Lusting
for experience. Haunting now. Haunting never.
I’m breaking the narrative of society and made
something of myself. Poetry that I write, is a
different story. Truth be told, its in order to grab
attention from thy lover.
(knowledge variable)

Freedom a burden with load, pressing on shoulders,
poetry cannot tame or teach passion in wild tones. To
gain oneself, to lose another. Mystical wisdom that on
purpose collides with reality, producing illumination.
Poppy seeds and sunflowers. Fireflies dance with the
moon’s silver. Evading the inner self, spilling forward.
Profound elevation, risking a profound hurt. Colours
in romance, music to the neo. Leaving behind memories
of joy and forgetting all-else, on the account it never
to exist again.  
(knowledge variable)

To smile, while sitting the corner,
alone and crying, it's hard to live,
because when is in love, it's nothing
but grief, a blessing and a burden.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BtS0z4J0UWE

For those with another, without any real love,
for how you have fallen for life’s cruel tricks,
another giggle from mocking time. Things fall
apart, is what death tells me as the poet cries,
forming articulated words of love. For how things
sway me. But not in faith that real love exists.
Knowing not what to decide, those idles who
provide a veil of love, or those who suffer by
following that veil, with red robes and a mind of
hope.
(knowledge variable)

To know truth is disown a loss of life, slowly simmering to a boil, to be free, when we’re all pawns to the marriage that freedom has with reality. To know truth, to be in real freedom and that loss could be morals, values, memories we hold dear to our heart, it could be a loss a friends and family. Things we had worked for, like a career. Sober and seldom, no longer to be enslaved to one’s own dreams and desires, breaking away from earthly suffering. To be a muse is the same to be a sinner, may as well be better, wrapping one’s soul around this world and drop poems veiled over dogma. To live in narrative of society, is be worse than laymen, scorned forever in flaws. Hypocrisy, those who dream the most, often live less and never to know truth, freedom and be mastered by reality. Be weary of false prophets in culture. There is nothing sacred about an individual moral codes. Otherwise, society would have no need for revolutions.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BtS0z4J0UWE

Poetry, I’ll give you my unfulfilled dreams
and yearnings, any part of my past, that
brews resentment. I’ll keep the rest and
I’ll smile.
(Knowledge Variable)

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)

Sometimes, the most beautiful pieces of art,
come from the most damaged and broken
people, isolation in solitude, original persona,
innovator of thought. They’re exiled in social
circles, frowned upon by family, ignored by
most. Dare to be themselves, dared to create
art.
(knowledge variable)