In reading past philosopher's, a concerto conversation
in historic fashion and expressed in poetry. A soul
trembling, mystic produced, words to murmur all through
a moon-lit, silver night and see the sun rise again.
Descent from the mundane, where void is birthed,
watch life expressed in mystical beauty.
(Knowledge Variable)

How you love yourself, won’t be the
same when it comes to others, to
cry, internally or even sobbing out an
ocean, you’ll be alone, despite any
helping hand. As for poetry, still, I’ll
take my comfort there.

lovers lie,
lovers be here now,
love is in the moment only
as nothing else

Perhaps those who write poetry
are meant to be in love with those
who read poetry. Emerging from
quiet reading spots. Roses, lush
moments, blushing cheeks, wild
smiles, untamed glances and
everything else that’s cliche or
not, that is related to love. Not
everyone is meant to live lonely.
(knowledge variable)

A self induced hardship - desiring without action,
dreaming ruthless castle-like magnificence. Aiming
towards Heaven.

My own growth comes from a deep realization of loss of life, whether
its
at my own hands or by another, I’m skewed emotional & left questioning my own intellect, I live until it’s time to go & continue to be proud or apologetic for
my own extreme nature.

Holy justice,
just dying.

As for freedom, I’ll accept being hellbound
if I won’t be heldown. Since that life is based
on sinning, on ancient scrolls, turning *** to crack,
until the militant mind, my private machiavelli
returns, it’s all eyes on thy soulmate. As being a
natural born romantic, I’ll trade freedom for one
moment with such person, enslaved to one single
moment of Heavenly presence, making all poets
chant songs of envy, causing the mundane to
rethink their entire life. For I shall subscribe to
liberty for the heat of my soul, whether it’s in my
personal temptation, known for flashing or for thy
love of my life. The world is mine and my own status
is determined by the quality of my thinking. I’ve
learnt how to live with the time given to me and
fear only never to live. I’ll be real, living or dead.
To anyone trying to prevent, I’ll destroy everything
that you touch. Against all odds, I’ve peered behind
the curtains and dare to continued.
(knowledge variable)

As for the romantics turning to poetry, in constant streams, knowing
all too well, about their own transgressions in their fragility, wishing
for another life, the theatre of emotions, heightening the world of
melodramatic, eyeglasses, blinks of love. Generally they’re with one,
rather than destiny’s choice in the other. And sometimes, the void
and despair is always self-created.

Sometimes I feel the present colliding inside,
as the future declares war, both pressing upon,
I’m unable to focus on the present. Be with me
now. There is no poetry without some sort of
suffering. Despite how much this poem seems
to lack.
(knowledge variable)

It’s generally the one you let go, that one
is meant for. Perhaps when memories turn
to golden smiles, to what if’s. Do not render
to poetry as compensation, but it’s alright
to write tears of self-resentment in poetry.
Though it’s cliche to start romance in one
glance, but the eyes are in search and
leaning inwards, feeling one’s breathing,
souls wrestles, intertwined in one kiss.
However overused the glance is, the strongest
love always starts somewhere, it’s the same
from the greatest heartbreaks. And poetry
knows who deserves love and heartbreak.
With the romantics chasing the feelings.
As perhaps life is nothing but a dream and
each poems is supposed to ease each pain,
but we write like how we dream.
(knowledge variable)

Modern times, mystery here and there. Lore and stories.
Spellbinding to my soul. Eyes wide open. Manifestations
over to my hands. One eye and everything that I’ve ever
wanted, within one arm’s reach.
(knowledge variable)

A love is a love,
absurd & real,
phony, & fake.
For it’s worth,
it’s yearning,
regret, illumination
& painful.

created a isolated world
than plucked
myself into reality,
for impulsive reasons.

Serpent in poet’s garden, her in my mind,
demons and angels, wrestle, all wanted
is rebirth in poetry. Still sinful as I write
in graceful poetry. When I romance, I
do it right. Though when I sin in lust,
to spills over onto the Earth’s soil.

She could be a direct mediator between Heaven and earth,
Heavenly power - equal to Angels that help her muse over poetry.
Her earthly power, producing a new institution of philosophy and
the arts, along by sparking a new period of humanity, forgetting
any philosophy and art in our history, with passion. The fact
that her heart, mind, character and soul is all connected and tamed,
she is a walking Empire. I know, because I paid attention when
she tempted me with seducing beauty of smiles and glittering eyes.

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.

no one invited me to love,
so I wrote it in poetry,
aesthetic perhaps, but at least
those who read, can go
'awe'

with no pockets full of answer,
no stanzas to flow on,
ive got nothing else to say

Real tenderness can be perceived, longing affection, like how overused a glance is used in the romance genre, oh how else is lover supposed to start? For what I’m I supposed to do, when she’s not around? So I write poetry to help pass the time. I want to bask and yawn in paradise, as for me, I dare to dream on her, sweet honey kisses, though until it’s in actions, there is nothing wrong with romanticizing upon her, poetry is comfort until she glances attention, shifting my emotions from terror of angst to perhaps life isn’t so bad. Do I dare to glare inside her secret eyes? Secrets, secrets, secret inside. Do I dare wonder how many had dared to do the same? As I watch her turn away, as my heartbreaks in two. It’s only earthly sadness in eternal war. I’ll breathe in the moon, I’ll breathe in the sun, ******* in all of life’s beauty. For it’s only temporarily compensations. I’ll report back to poetry. For love isn’t meant for some strange land, some dream we all experience, a yearning or a sigh. Love was made to be held in our hands and experienced.
(knowledge variable)

between day & night,
splitting all metaphysical hairs,
there
she is, in awe.

Let me be abandon, exile in isolation, coming to grip with death as a unavoidable action, never now, will I need to repent on never living my life, perhaps those made from genuine substance are the most lonely in known cosmos, doomed to read to poetry to pass the time, avoiding to be the contrary to those sticking to the masses. People collecting and colliding together, unsatisfied with themselves, filling out with luxuries, like rats scattering across the creaky wooden boards, avoiding those opposite - plagues. Love in poetry is never fulfillment of love, ony in the experience, no series of moments in life will stop the struggle, awakening happens in the blissful combustion in conquering the mind, the totality of being in existence, dominating reality and birthing freedom from it, life’s meaning has nothing to with being saved. To when I die, do not weep for when my coffin drops into the ground, for I had already passed, left to wonder this life, alone in exile, [pictures of me in my final state, on poetic grind, refuting mysterious rumours, waiting for comrades getting murdered and resurrected, can’t lie, got no love for the other side, at that other place, rumours that I died, murdered in cold blood, I just left.
(knowledge variable)

A trained poet, knows that falling in
love in their life, devalues poetry itself,
no-longer motivated to read in their
own search for love. Sonnets for beauty,
lines to express emotions, nothing can
replace the touches and glances, from
a smiling lover.

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

my emotions are mine,
whether they're
true or false, I'll never
know

deeper the despair,
more fair the cries,
darker the thoughts,
brighter the light.

My own importance to the world is small and stupor to some, slithe and soothing to my own essence, diamonds in the lights, aligning stars in the night.
        
                                 Wonder what it takes to come alive
                                                              And it usually something simple

                Lovers with unqualified praise that never deny potent poetry

I often kiss her, not to taste her, I often want to escape, so I dream to diver into her soul. Glorious treat, outshining caviar. It’s when anything exotic is devalued. To be accepted with a sinful past, clean smile, a rapture in one’s life, to fall in love and to be loved greater back.  Awakening transforming period, to impress any Mystic, there’s forever and I hold it, if only I praise her, how I’m I supposed to use it otherwise?

    A golden mask, hides sin
                                           Love is for the brave with sin in their soul
                                           Life is given freely.
                                           Oh poetry, you can never express what I feel for her.
Pure love produces the highest forms of poetry
And the lovers heartbeat, causes tremors everywhere, including the cosmos
that permit every supernova to move.

As for the rest this, love is meant to be experienced and never to be told to others.

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

Poetry, the power to conceive an experienced emotions,
letting it loose in freedom, spoken tongue and fluttering
eyes, reliving an foundation to move forward. Knowing
full well, that death is definite. While I’ll speak as others
read. I do wonder what freedom is made from. Whether
it’s in this life or the next. Until the end of time, I’ll continue
in poetry and so far, it’s the best form comfort outside the
lovers arms of safety.

Freedom, the secretive and conclusive gesture,
that life has bread in the either, echoing with it
in the air, perhaps it’s greater than love to the
poets. It is all that above, freedom is, or it does
not exist. There’s a scent to it, as our hands
naturally know how it feels, to every attempt to
grasp upon and hold. Only in moments of death,
perhaps as we let go the life we had just lead,
we can finally experience it, providing better
ecstasy than any illumination. I had always for
something, I could never touch. Poetry cannot
constantly be split into dreams and reality.
For I have no-idea how the soul stays sane,
living in this duality. For me, it’s useless being
alive, if one is not the path of personal revelation,
whether that’s in love of thy soulmate, or just
the transcendence of one’s illumination. But the
saddest thing is, is not whether we can reach it
before death, it’s that those rare people who do,
get frowned upon, be called mad, and turned
away into exile, by the layman's-mundane ignorance.
Finally breathing through the wind, as my body
dives into the bath of Muses below, where I’m
blessed with martyrdom, which is the highest any
human can achieve. It isn’t really true, just because
you witnessed a person die for it. Even though
my life was a discovery of things, worth dying for
like my love for my soulmate.  
(Why be master, when one can be king?)
- Knowledge Variable

Oh poetry, oh lover,
perhaps love itself, only exists, when it’s
adored. Something we all dream of, going
beyond of losing reality. Love, a phantom
within our inner-world, creating void, until
it reaches a spark, with the help of wildfire
that shoots pasts our soul, into the external
world. Than the reality, we all grew up and
lived in prior, no-longer becomes real, on
the account, it loses value and meaning.
And only the world that the love created is
real. Life can be a dramatic grandeur scene,
lost in the development of original and intended
fate, by those brave enough to follow, or it’s not.
Our bodies, a canvas, love is the paint.
Perhaps love itself, does not exist, perhaps
it does not. Oh let us find out.
(Knowledge Variable)

A good lover, is a brief moment in time. The perfect
one, is cut off in this life, because once sparked.
Like a star, enslaved chains. Always on the chase.
Maybe I’m naive on my find for love. At least in
the process I found poetry, to comfort my bitter
and warm tears, I always end up, alone while
I cry. And if the dead could talk, I wonder what
they’ll be screaming about? Soulmates shouldn't
be in some novel, parallel universe, dreams
or wishes. They all belong in each other’s life,
instantly devaluing poetry and any romantic art.
In a world where affection is constant and growing,
with every-sound, just another love song in ode
and homage. Wake up, you don’t have to run,
you don’t hide, just cave in

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.

Luminous words formatted
with clear conscious of vivid
strokes of the hands. A shame
that it didn’t get the results
as one desired.

Perhaps poets are those going into poetry, because
they’ve meet their soulmate and came up short.
Unable to bear the pain, so, in secret, writing forms,
they’ve spreaded their pain over this earth and just
maybe that had burdened humanity, with poems
articulating actual pure love, we all yearn, articulated
soulmates, from the poets lost love. Trickling devils,
now we all have something to aspire to, in higher
ways of living, forgetting there is life right in front
of eyes that isn’t muted.  
(knowledge variable)

with days of despair,
filled with heartbreak,
I'm still alive,
and its never ending

with teardrops
on my face,
still i think of you

Oh poet, my dream is to witness you
to fall in love, that you’re consumed so
much love, that’s at the point of madness,
and you forget to write another poem.
- knowledge variable

In the time of dying, you’ll remember when you
have meet and turned away from thee lover, for
whatever mystical reason, redemption can be
offered, whisper their name, whisper it loud echos,
never stop the streaming image of thy lover, there
is no cure for love, none, you’ll carry the lover
over to the next life. Will it be a burden or blessing?

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
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irony,
the freedom of
putting off maturity
but my regrets remain in poetry

Writing poetry isn’t my repertoire muse,
romance is. Long, broad, stretching
deep Angel dust in deepening substance.
Something like mixing Nostalgia in with
memories, experiences present and
my yearnings to be better than yesterday
is parenting my future.
Romance, an addiction and my obsession
(knowledge variable)

aesthetic words
to attract your eyes
to read over,
it wasn't the beauty
I wanted to show,
just what I wanted to say

Is it too selfish not only to matter, but to belong? Despite how guilty I feel, how much sin I’ve committed, my failures, my shortcomings. Is it so wrong to devote myself to myself, to find my own meaning, my own cause, my purpose, my drive, to look for my own happiness, my truths, to **** my desire so I wouldn’t feel that I’m missing out, to find something to fill my void, so my soul wouldn’t live out throughout my day wounded? Even if I seek in external at times? Is it so wrong to be poetic, to be romantic, to be thy. Even if I turn to people like Aleister Crowley, to be inspired not only to think rational, to be passionate. Is it wrong to read philosophy, reject the thought of being complete is in the search of becoming complete? For I’ve peered into myself I found only sadness in the despair I saw & I don’t like. No matter how dramatic this is written, it is my truth, my burden, my curse & it’ the price I’ve paid for originality for wanting only to be myself & I find hard to smile realizing what I could've been by playing it safe & been without to what’s internalized in me. I’m meaningful to you, but a paradox, because I’m without you. I’m only on the brink of your life. As long as I’m on this earth, in this life, I am, unable to & able to live, alone & with others. I weeping now, but you weep when I’ve gone.

My only empathy I have towards truth,
it cannot be meet without some sort
of resentment. It lights a quiet earth,
sparks conversations after thoughts.
To what I can smile at, an effort to improve.
Plato, lonely is it ever truth is. Conflicting
views, based on emotion, that devalues
parts of life. Plato, perhaps it’s not the
contents of truth, just a matter of
respect.
(knowledge variable)

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.
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Oh poetry, how it is illuminated by love
and left behind all poems are, because
love is such an awakening experience.
To which, it could not be expressed
in words that’s forms poetry.  
Oh poetry, I do wonder how many of
those in suffering moments, and continue
to suffer in private torment, all because
they could not break, from their reserving
shyness and even though all poetry is
encouraging.
(knowledge variable)

If you’re going to write poetry,
tell the truth before expressing
beauty, love or any mood.
& in that process, an eventual
understanding in the sadness of
it all how much this life lacks of
it all. Minds get lost when reading
those poems, praying only to
get closer to the truth. Oh poetry,
look how I live my life outside
my written word. Look what
you done.

Lover, the world can be so cruel, throw your
heart to me and I’ll place in my poetry, the
beauty of it, will spread in the same way that
paint does on it’s selected canvas. Only surviving
the hardship can soften any inner-world, drums
beat to the dramatic cello’s, stories for writers,
the arts will pay homage, like those stone
and marble statues rise in your honour.
As you in gracious ways had surpassed in grandeur
The world has no exceptions, beside for lovers
out of poetry and walking on this Earths
surface with purpose, as thy Angels sings.
Because society whose mundane, throws stones,
as the lovers find diamonds and place them
back on life’s shrine. Why should I be afraid to
die? I belong to you.
(Knowledge Variable)