If I could start from scratch, I’ll rage war earlier in attempts to conquer my own flaws, in order to be pillar and make something of myself, be a blessing to those I dare open up to, as some have been to me, growing pains is in retrospect, but I guess a contribution to youth is always adjoined to learning. If I could start from scratch, I’ll celebrate my 18th by vowing to stay clean, showing up to recovery and never saying a single to word any other in those rooms. If I could start my life from scratch, I would learn about death, growing my learning thoughts to its definition and learn how to die. We all die one day. And I’ll open up death’s fade. It isn’t a crime unless if they catch you. If you live for yourself, you’ll die in shame. If I could start from scratch, I’ll hug every person who is kind enough to say hello. If I could start my life from scratch, I’ll value reading poetry, for the sake of the poet, who had spent their entire time, articulating the world’s thoughts that are mixed in with emotions. I’ll respect the Devil, because truth doesn’t change and faith isn’t required when it comes to it. For now, if you get too close, I’ll clap you. And wouldn’t reside to victimhood when I got to leave home, because they had no money and the lack of understanding others leaves room of void, no one will truly know until we all trade places. Life isn’t promised, I’m still blessed to every dollar I’m getting. And I’m still being guilty of being anxious. I’ve given up on getting a fair go. Reality demands something else to what society gives back, the duality of humanity, breeds fair go to those who develop originality. To soak up pain, is to understand, but I wouldn’t dare to sing gospel, I’ll sit quite, because I heard that when one weeps, you’re alone. I heard a blast. When I die, I want to be a living legend. For they try to **** me. If I could start my life from scratch, I wouldn’t prevent myself from falling down, I’ll come to grips with it.There’s no other feeling like getting up and trying again.  Than again, I could part from my past, but never to replace it, so coast to coast, before going broke, I’ll ****** their wallets and run. Than focus on dying without a whimper.
(knowledge variable)

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)

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)

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)

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

My thoughts are free, my body is in chains,
freedom in places of danger, bringing down steel
cuffs in lands of peace. Produced a being of
paradoxes, poetics,  unfulfilled romance, philosophy
that isn’t articulated and the dramatics. Venture
into the reality of existence, go with knowing
there’s horror and reasons to smile. Truth will bring
no gold. Coffee, jazz and dreams of love, a poet
already has. What has killed the illusions of this world
and for some that I had, who lives along in this
world, had left me in bitterness, but provide a
sense, I could finally touch destiny. There is
no hope for those, just wanting to fit into
this world. It has been done before and created
injustice, ignorance and inequality
(Knowledge Variable)

The memories have not yet passed
away, into an area I’ll forget. Awaiting
a time I feel fine, awaiting, always
waiting. Conscious that is no right
way to live. I’ll die anyway.

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.

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

I support truth,
in that,
I confess I’d rather
be immortal
& forget everyone
I’ve ever met.

Thou Shall not avoid one’s destiny, Thou Shalt not turn face behind closed doors. The walls have ears, from those from the other side have planted eyes there. You think those people know better, because they’re older than I am, hate to be a burden, but you giving illusions to construct my character to a lesser version is a cultural sin and I’m happy to be cutting your throats over those preventing my own destiny and that’s real. Because I’ve seen the other side and they all have mocking faces, just like what time does. Against all odds for I have prevailed everything at all costs and parted from this earth without the transition of death. You’re not live like me. Your secrets, out of the closet, close your mouth. You can tell you wife whatever you want. But everything past or present comes to the light. Can’t player hate on me. To the Mystics, they know the difference between me and you. Light skin, socky, with a Haitian accent, known for flashing. Working for the revolution, still I snitch, you tricks can never shut me up, touch one of mine, I’ll destroy everything you love. Same trail, just different courts, picture what he said. I’ll be real, a legend, living or dead. God don’t like ugly, but you can meet the Devil before death. For those who don’t rhyme right, seen too many movies. BANG-BANG. Forgive, for they’re trying to **** me. Not for the revolution or that other side. Now I got two rottweilers next to my bed as I sleep. Mystic poets done in the dark. They can paint in you in red and your another dead laymen. Lurking on you, as they break bread with Gods. Because actions speak louder than actions.  Just started form initiation of an outlaw immortal. Seeing the grander things of ending times. Passing the period of the biblical rapture. I’ve awaken, risen and it’s a choice not to fall. I can remember those boys trying to get me in thy sleep, my buddy has no heart, it was in the middle of the Cross, they talked loud till my buddy starting popping off, scattering pedestrians. Those peasants now wish they never stuck their heads out the door. Would God be satisfied the loaves and fishes and itty-bitty thimbles of Communion wine, while Satan to have the red-eye gravy, eighteen-ounce New York Stakes, and buckets of chilled champagne? Would God really accept twice-a-month ******* for procreative purposes and give Satan the all night, no-holds-barred, nasty “can’t-get-enough-of-you” hot-as-hell-*****?Think about it. Would Satan get New Orleans, Bangkok, and the French Riviera and God get Salt Lake City? Satan get ice hockey, God get horseshoes? God get bingo, Satan get stud poker? Satan get LSD; God, Prozac? God get Neil Simon; Satan Oscar Wilde? Devil is happy when the critics run you off your feet, poor God, getting blamed for all the world's misfortunes. As for me, I’m in the middle and produced something duality. For joined the Outlaw Mystics, where humanity calls mad and all those religious peasants shun us out and anyone, regardless of side know better, they all tempt our souls, but I only mock them, cause they know I’ve reached immortality and I laugh.

I heard a rumour that I died, murdered and shot,
to lay in cold blood. Everything weeps, for when
they shouldn’t. But it’s all fiction. Someone had
gotton the story twisted and chanted that I no
longer exist. I’m not hard to find. For when I die,
I want to be a living legend. To lead ways of wild,
into the blood of women, as I punish all men of
their petty ignorance. I could remember what those
behind the curtain told me, it was everything that
Blasphemy is. And I’ve accepted, to run to my
own destiny, they’ll be those ready to hate as the
others there to support. For that, I have nothing
else to say to either side. For I’ve already left, for
a living death. Pictures of me in my final state, as
I smile and go on. Babylon beware. Peasants in
Jerusalem waiting for sign. Mystic join time, to
mock everyone here on earth. The future wants
me buried, because I know who’s lying. There’s
generations of people, wanting to change the
world and fewer people wanting to change themselves.
My heart is pure as I speak of humanity in vain.

At death, stops a choking anguish,
paying for a life lived and not all
the wrongs I’ve done. Will my own
soul go into exile? On the other side
of the vast distance between those
on Earth and myself. Stepping over
decaying petals, will I go somewhere
else? Someone tell that I am, isn’t
God just another cop, willing to pull
the trigger back, when I don’t go
pop? Step no nearer to me. There’s
a storm coming. Plots and schemes.
In constant circles, around me.
They smile at me and frown behind me.
Secrets in plain sight, until I see them
and secrets no-more.

with no more words to say,
nothing left to do,
i shall die in a whimper

Even the horror has stopped, the irony has a place
in one’s heart. Poetry is always forgotten during the
horror. I had always thought, if the eyes of death
blinked first, would give me a smile. It didn’t. Death
just continued. Now there’s fictional truth about me.
(knowledge variable)

Great poetry can derive from the greatest isolation,
Conjure and fades away, in reality, art is produced,
resulting in higher dreams, yearning emotions and
at times, thinking thoughts, exchanging verses over
melodies inspiring to sing. One poet, can write one
poem, that sparks something more than a personal
revolution, changing tides to change Earth’s patterns,
like bring the second renaissance, where in actuality,
the poet only wanted romance. Where it’s always
kept at a large distance

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.

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

mount despair,
beaten down, stumbling,
compassion for wasted beauty,
speaking for beauty of a generation,
loner

Fall in love with a real women, whose making
something of herself with her private intelligence,
helping hand from her depth of character and
ready-made beauty, trust me, they hold up
the sun and sky. When they smile, the stars
rise and ballet for them. The rest of this life’s
beauty will be shown, depending on their mood.
Everything else is pure mysticism, man unable
to understand. So, when you’re paying for the
love she gives, with your soul. One will be
Illuminati and the rest will be understood.
And trust me, real women have no-need of boys.

Truth,
no one knows,
everyone wants you,
you're never alone

The irony of feeling,
we’ve all felt horrible.

My soul, sung by a tenor.
Those who can hear, vanished
into thin air, by spooks or by
social shunning and wept.
Many can’t hear, few ever do,
mystics are the ones who
stay to listen to singing tenor.
Mystic, I’ve self-produced a
supplication for life on Earth.  
And in can disturb the cosmic
alignment between the layman's
soul and mind. Got one love
for my true mystics.

Perhaps poetry itself invented love, if it didn’t
poetry took advantage of love, only to get noticed.
Now at least I’ve got something to do, just writing
poems about the love I yearn and have not yet
experienced. Troublesome.
(Knowledge Variable)

To a poem,
I can say whatever I want,
but often with regret,
for its something I don’t
say in a previous moment.

Inside to inner life, enticing lovers to come forward, a landscape richness of images and emotions. Marble statues, raised in her image, paying homage to god-like achievement.
Never to be loosened, folklore mixing in with reality. Weaved poems from casting romance roles, under moonlight and around candlelight. Green glow and owls.
Sleepless night, meeting one’s own dream, when those myths collide with reality to explode over earth, as every word in dogma is instantly forgotten. And it’s too late, she’s burnt in the memory of immortality. It’s a exorcism from humanities sins, hidden demons and no holy water.
History is dull.
As the romantic place in poetry, providing praise. Smile knowing there isn’t anything wrong of forever believing in spellbinding love. For living outside being so, not worth living. Stepping outside the paradox. The commitment to love, processed over a lifetime and built from scratch. No one ever has to wait, taking comfort in poetry, dipped in honey. Perhaps it’s glory, poetic exaggeration, though everyone wants to be saved, perhaps no one really does, though it’s always the other that saves, to be on a pedal steel with roses thrown to the feet is the only price to pay, is one some do turn away from. Cigarette smoke in jazz ballads. Fear not, fear never and the only regret is loss of life of one’s personal history in avoiding thee. Maybe we’re just molded from the same star and just wanted to discover ourselves first. Life happens now and it never waits. For now, in regal imagery, I see in, death is still definite.
A tyrant to one’s heart,
the foundation for humanities poetry,
and when I think of love, it’s your actions is what come
first to my mind’s eye.
As for poetry, will never truly understand or express
deep love that’s experienced.
And worry, I’ll never be able to fulfill musings ways of love.
Despite poetry’s attempt to teach.
A person, that Heaven can’t replace with any Angel.
Perhaps this only a dream.
But I learnt from poetry, it's good
to have feelings and just want to vibe.

Grief is nothing until we reach it. Though we know, death is
always a definite, no matter what our inner world declares,
presents to us or it forms us. Dislocating us from the world
and providing less meaning, fading away, innocence loses
as the notion of expectations leaves us. Rendering to deal
with reality, alone.
(knowledge variable)

I feel my thoughts,
of feelings felt,
cannot let go, its still
there, poetry isn't helping

In truth, little amount is from the people
who tend to create something from
their own being, you know, actually
being someone - or most do nothing
in isolation, away from prying eyes.
But always the collective is the first
to blame. You know, talk about disease,
ignorance is so suffocating, in every way.
It turns somemany blind. The sobering truth,
if you live, you’re apart of the system.
In some measurable way. By breathing
you express being alive and by acting,
it’s a culture, fashion, religious, law -lawless
or social expression. And everyone can
see. There’s is nothing wrong to success.
That’s measurable as-well. You know,
quantity of friends, high opinion,
rising ladders in the corporate world
or being the one bringing them down.
And in reality, success generally comes
someone else’s misery. At the peak of
it all, stars shine bright, until other than
you all and get ignore. As anything goes.

I’ve always considered sin is to avoid
the beauty, perhaps to prevent flowers
to bloom, never to hold a conversation,
never to look inside, never to meditate,
perhaps to what I thought sin is, is not
written. Perhaps it’s inside of me. The
duality of everything. Starting a riot
with oneself, duck taping one’s real character,
I’d rather learn to what I can take, when
I finally cross over and pray in the meantime,
that both Heaven and Hell will let me in.
And the prays are howling to the moon, sobs
to drown the ocean, dreams in the sleeping
Visions. That love to make any other love
seem so irrelevant. Praying for everything
to simultaneously happen now, except the
Forgiveness of sin. Feel each word to
each poem ever written.  
(knowledge variable)

There’s nothing profitable in poetry,
but everyone looks at the poet in awe,
there’s something about reading a
poem at the time, in the right mood
that sparks nothing that’s contagious,
but something illuminating.

Muse, in bright lashes and painted
nails, I confront the conforming
social trends and I laughed.
I was taken by force to exile.
I’m not mad at you, it’s done in
the dark. They painted my body
in red, because I stumbled behind
the curtains. Some things are
Best left unsaid, even if, most
of the population are left
to look the same. I knew they
had to leave me there.
Smoke that Bombay

Let me soak in something than higher art, expression of reality that I experience. Effortless and distinction. Eternal on dawning-awakening. Evening kisses under moonlight. Pulling contrast. Attributing lines to poetry, but must experience the romance first. Deriving from dreams. In remote areas of my inner-world.

No mutual admiration, I adore the thought of being loved, for I have so much to give and I’m slowly tiring with engaging with poetry.

Their eyes glittered heaven and waved into my soul, lingering inside now. In mystery, touching my flesh, soothing poetry. Exchanging secrets. We conversed for days, afterwards, we sat in silence and I felt content for the first time. I had always read about love, poetry, novels, in songs I heard. As for finding one’s soulmate, I had always thought they exiled to the cosmo’s and never to exist here in the present with me now. Evoking meaning into me. Galactic beauty. Though it’s wildly-overwhelming, taming my entire essence. We kiss. Touch. Stare. Smile. For I have travelled far enough to meet the one shaped only for me.

Harmony.

Blending in paradise, paradox and reality. Be in the sweep of movement with me. It’s a strange land. Normal to my Muse. pounding scarlet. Brewing violet. Velvet blending. Long time melodramatic epic. As for my peers, they’re blowing in the wind on death row.

For me, I rose.

Installing myself into history. Drifting away from this world. Combing body, soul, heart and formed my essence. Belonging to a kingdom, unable to be articulated in any form of art or poetry. It’s sinful to avoid it. A culture of Muses, coming together, from something I just wanted pure love, in poetic romance, epic symphonies. Opera written than sung for me. As I approach my own destiny that I crafted for myself, there is destiny, but vain, despair, angst and pain, is from not from acting on life and falling into the mundane. With climate of the adoring music. As lyrics leaving me spellbound. And without a sound, I slide down, the tree of life as Goat heads pray. The trinity men singing in chanting words. Spanned across period of humanity.

Burning into consciousness.

In rewards, mythological fame, I’m in a world of my own. A single drop, into limitless paths, expressed wit my own hands touching immortality, as the population watches as a defenceless witness. Tender and full of emotion. I can birth any future for anyone

There’s nothing more eloquent than that glance at your lover, that somehow forces magic inside to boil and burst inside and you’ve got nothing else to do, than to violently act in ******* session, disregarding the world outside. All in unpredictable fashions, forming historic times, in it’s sliding wild and roaring romantic themes, that’s even new to our Muses and as humanity looks back on the lovers, it sparks the second renaissance. Kissing and touching in singular places, urging to move on, because it’s all too painful not to kiss and touch everywhere at the same time, moans turn into love songs, through the physical, the souls transcend through becoming one and finally, the meaning of life becomes all too visible, as for the fact of being all too human, drips and drops away in melting fashion and finally, like the bluebirds being let free from its cages for the first time. Lovers become free to live as they should. Angels in Gods eyes and illuminating everything they touch with ease. There is no boundaries between the two, no secrets, nothing to hold them back, all personal fears and insecurities become forgotten, like their personal history as their private-public flaws are mastered and moved on from. And in a gasp of romance aroma breathing in air, and perhaps with a little sting of envy, for anyone blessed enough to witness two that had found each other, despite life’s and this society's flaws, sin, expectations, they’ve got nothing to do, but to continue to gasp in awe, bringing any heart to tears. Though how ******, how much of cruel trick, with joking laughter, life would be, that there would be utterly no hope of actually finding one’s soulmate and experience the true and pure love of a soulmate and that dream only belonged in poetry or to some parallel world. And as much as I expect to be held responsible for thy sins committed in this life, for I fully expect to uphold my creator to my soulmate, whether that I get to experience them or not. Now I fully understand, that whether I’m living in paradise or not, it presents self-awareness and knowledge, bliss truly mixes in with the ignorant. As for now, all I know, that each love poem is only a trail left behind those who had experience it.

As for my own redemption, to all that I took apart by ignoring, I could only use this present to parent my future, not to repeat the mistake I’ve suffered in the past, do not pity me because I have. For I had apart in it. Strip back beliefs, perhaps there is no inherent good or evil and it’s all left to our hands to contribute either. It’s tiring engaging with this world, noticing my own duality. By each sin committed, by our acts of kindness, there’s a twinkling ripple in our actions and it’s the same in our silence that lacks any actions. The sun rises in the east and settles in the west. The sun raises itself daily.

For let us pray, we’ve all sinned and as for my kindness, let me learn to be self-satisfied in being the only person of knowing such action has taken place.

It can be a small world, constant crossing over moments, little for elevation, words on the wanting it all to end. As to the amount of gods in spectrum-history to humanity, to the same count can be called for the apocalypse, for it’s nothing new in the human psyche, the yearning for it is as strong to know the meaning of one and the entire humanities meaning. It won’t stop. Until it happens and when you speak of the Devil, he shall appear.

To develop, to know, to learn, to act on, to practise one’s own character that fate I had mention, to unfold throughout life is nothing short of an addictive-venture that brings such a lonely sickness. As to most laymen, for it’s too hard to grasp and ponder with thinking thoughts, that’s why martyrs had been deemed crazy-mad prior to dying. After that fateful action in death. Their life had personal permission to full live without fear of the outside.

Eat the apple.

Life can be taken in as thawing out.

I wander in darkness seeking light, failing to realize that the light is in the heart of the darkness. Surpassing all culture’s creed and dogma. Rising from the water to jump off the edge, flying through the clouds and drips of dazzling rain. Not accepting the natural status that others had placed upon. The mystics that sing the mysteries sing louder, binding themselves onto me. The glitter to the normal world is everything that vels are. Wisdom has o fears and as a pool of it, self-produced, never to run dry, for it eventually covers the ocean floor and everyone wants to know the code of poet’s immortality, never want to lead a new generation.

The world can end today. But not before I have my coffee.

For I’ll walk a flock of flames.

Conversing philosopher with the one, who holds the heart of a soldier and the brains to teach a whole globe.

i, me

And perhaps to confuse the Angels, is to
let them know how long people stay in churches.
With the amount that derives from it. Without
a sound, they slide down and it’s so easy, to
forget, that any Angel could provide more than
being an awakening of knowing to be good
enough in the scene of romance. It’s been
one of a kind ride, along the bladed knife.
Where else could I see God, outside stained
images along the walls and in a magnitude
of collected books and dogma. A character
so stretched, it spawns different religious
fountains, that can encourage people, not only
to die, but to ****, or in simple tragic hands,
look what I got, could birth the most tear
dropping acts of humanity. (Cut those ivory
into skinny pieces and feed the poor. They’re
left questioning and saying: ‘I should of run
that way, or maybe this way.’ Those *******
will never know, cause I got away. I guess it’s
close to armageddon, more ******, harming
and joy, don’t you know, you can meet the devil
before death? It’s behind the curtains in plain
sight, the best kept secrets are well protected
and never to be proven. From the land that
never rains, everything they seem to do, cause
drama and you’ll never be right as you’re left
dead wrong, even when you’re long gone.
Dear Lord, bless my mystics in the in penitentiary,
Soldiers of the century.)

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

Poetry, death isn’t the end. A good poem
will stain the minds of those who read it.
Like a the perfect lover who  had left,
memory is consumed by them, while
experiencing regret now. Leading one
to the mysterious rites and rituals (I
got comrades, murdered and resurrected).
Enigmatic mystic, craving only touch - again.
Not something, where poetry nor mysticism
could ever provide. Rebirth

When thy love speaks the truth, she’s creating
reality around. A place for freedom, where I
can develop into my original character and move
freely in that world. Shattering everything that
I had whispered to myself and trusted to her.
(For all my life, I had been poor. Not only it
provides reason to go deep into addiction,
it also suffocates you while you’re clean. I had to
work in and out of poetry to her glittering eyes
to gaze upon me.)

Thoughts expressed with emotion, do not criticize
if one cannot understand, thought look at it, as
if it’s something you cannot accept. As for the artist,
generally they become their own heros. If not, life
will be a bore, unable to fit into something normal.
I’m in too deep to change, I’m already dead, because
everyone looks unfamiliar and I swear I’m going to
die at the hands of someone I know. And that’s real.
No-one can **** the soul of someone’s creation.
(Knowledge Variable)

There’s no turning back from her essence, a devotion of deep discussions, enlighten intelligence, speaking in poetic forms, I’m blinded from her inner-world, teaching generations of humanity and leaving behind multiple renaissance. I measure the progress of my own life, by how content my lover is, I’m unable to see it any other way. For if that makes me morally wrong, parting from this world, fine, let it be. As for my lover, destiny has installed something greater, musings over this world, it’s ******* with your Heaven. It’s an historical event and something I witness in my own ****. For I’ve put too much work, investing in her love to turn back now. I’m desolate without, sinful without, the horrors of reality shadow over me, I’m unable to breathe without her attention, I wouldn’t last on the wrong path. Fo my entire essence, soft, gentle, tender and always yearning romance. I wasn’t born like this, I raised myself this way. For a brief and accidental moments, for I saw the entire worth of a woman’s inner-world and saw the face of God. And for the first time, I transcended, it’s beyond addiction, it’s life’s entire purpose. I leave my poems here, when I cross to the other side, so she can see my heart is pure.

Personal awakening, incurable
Reaching beyond everything
here on Earth, a permanent suffering.
For those undergoing the process
and for them who aren’t.

A memorable lover gives nostalgia, a melodic shape,
and only if you could forward the images to exterior,
everywhere you walk would turn into songs of love.
And existence itself could benefit from, knowing that
real is still reachable. That craving, the emotional
awakening, even in the mind’s intellect knows, the
memories of this pastime, gesture beyond the heart
of poetry and it’s transcends everything human. A
peculiar largeness to one’s whole essence. This engagement
of one’s own past, like it’s said, that real and pure love
is there, using this present thread of moments, parents
one’s own future. And if that real love that poetry
speaks about in such sinless grace does not exist,
I don’t want to know. Some things are better left unsaid.
Her, provides such a strong faith, to which poetry had
always failed in, that the love of soulmates can provide
is there and in this world, to be honest, I wouldn’t
be able to express it anyway, I’ll be pulled forward to
experience it and has left me with reason and meaning
to be alive. (Doesn’t being burnt, leave such a bitterness
to one’s life, that drips and veils everyone a certain
distrust?)  
- knowledge variable

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.

at the time of my death,
it would be a whimper
in the dark, full of regret
and shame

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

shouldn't be afraid to die,
i am

(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?

Pegasus I’ve found him. Tropical odds. Beating death. Immortalized in picture.
In love, nobody ever gets the person they had spent dreaming.
It’s horrifying. And the insecurity that comes with love.
A hellish experience.
Love had always been portrayed as innocent. Fine, your past is something to mourn over. Parting from it. Love demands that one’s past is forgotten. Present now, parent to the future. It’s an experience now to be explained.
Poetry for comfort.
Glances, eye glare, a flare. Flushing eyelashes. Not to be caught.
Is it actually dangerous to romanticize somebody? To be burden and pressed under love, is something I would rather have. Anything I would, if it’s the beat the feeling of feeling normal.
It’s a emotional waterfall. A change of shade. Alluring and seducing colours. Love is addiction. With the urge to carry on, despite not holding the courage to do so.
Oh poetry, lyrics to leave anyone spellbounded. To be in love, is to be hellbound. Rather all that brewing feelings now, to love passionately, as if forever exist. Desirous of thee, at all times. Kissing lips, swapping souls. An extension of one’s character. The critic. The caregiver. A lover. Oh poetry, how match distance have you missed the mark of accurately describing the experience of love. Still you raised to place effort to motivate. To provide belief that it actually exists and that love doesn’t belong to you.
For I’m ready to give up any earthly thing, desire, success, friend or family for any moment of love in hot and wild times, leaving traces of tender spots.
The results of love, will always be something no-one determines.
From somebody unexpected and never asked for.
At random.
Outside of one’s daily life.
The harshness of avoiding the acceptance of it,
Harder than reality.
Love is everything of prosecutor. Condemning sin.
It’s a sweeping in historical fashion of providing something more than any human purpose.
I get the poetry everywhere I go, I bust the poet open and take all his poems, I’m still claiming romance, till the day I die.
As for anyone standing outside, in the coldness of rain,
was the lack of love from no lover worth it, for the life you’re living?
Why I love thee, is something I’ll never know.
Cry now? What for?

Poems, somehow, poetic words
have none the value for what
I feel in experience, nor in
wondering in thoughts, even if
the thoughts and emotions.
Dancing with thy soul.
Experience awakening than die.
(They used to tell me,
the devil is the crazy one.
Told he hated me.
Then I got a little older
and learnt they are the crazy
ones. There’s nothing I
can say or do to change
They are. Red turns into
orange after a washes.
But that’s normal? Isn’t it
Norman? Out of our med’s
and out of minds, bring in
the world.) Why I say these things
cause people's scream, keep
creeping in my dreams.

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

Writing poems, to holding heartbeats, from tears
to potential, butterflies over flowers, tender poems
in tender moments, lips parting, souls wanting to
share, what are the chances to meet a figure formed
here in reality, that not only matched, but exceeded
your dreams?
(knowledge variable)