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

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.

Love cannot be articulated, it can be expressed during experience,
never to meet vain or envy. Worshiping all romance and
valuing everything. Pulling strain on everything else, resulting
in complete loss of value, if the love is true. Slow, feeling rapid,
waking conscious to both involved. Poet’s praise as others weep
in jealous-joy. Blooming flowers. The entire being is overwhelmed.
Never to meet the kind of love, that others do, that is somehow
always falls short, in its confinement of normal living and talk of
that the love I share with thy soulmate, does not exist. They
have never been and whimper in times of honest reality or at
the time of yearning redemption at death.

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)

Why must I be hard-headed?

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

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

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

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

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

Experience is only for poetry, as for poetry, it seeks
only to express love and knowing it will always fail,
while it privately yearns to experience it. Fast and long.
Pain is deep. Flanking fans. Stupor and drop. But as
for love, it only knows forever and laid in cement in the
culture of romance as poetry is it’s breathe.

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)

Writing poetry isn’t my repertoire muse,
romance is. Long, broad, stretching
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.

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

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)

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

now has tiny dancing flames, where stars
go to die. Their final breathe makes them
flicker in the dark, fading, as I take each
breathe, letting out slowly and in easing
pain, where in faith, show my real self to
the outside world. It’s all because I dare
to reach out to the infinity. When everyone
else told me that I couldn’t. But I do not
ponder on humanity's flaws, just wonder
when the rapture is coming.
Perhaps the only secret is to life, we wink
in sync to the evening stars
(dead wrong, when they’re long gone)

- knowledge variable

poetry,
records of my thoughts,
my emotions, its a personal history,
but not my everything

The only argument one does well,
it’s with one’s other identities. Fighting
for different causes, it’s all apart of
one giant  fellowship. Maybe by
accident that reality is only inside one’s
mind. I just wanted to go into romance
and nothing else. I’m a poetic peasant.
My inner-world worth more to me,
than another would know, romance
should not be in the realm of any poem
or spilling out of a poet’s tears. All
romance, beauty and love should live
only in the realm of experience.
(knowledge variable)

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

There is strange comfort in knowing that
no matter what happens today,
the Sun will rise again tomorrow.
The freedom of the open road is seductive,
serendipitous and absolutely liberating.
At some point, you just gotta forgive the past,
your happiness hinges on it
Explore the experience, original and intelligently
Then Push Beyond

At the heart of every frustration,
let it collide with fantasy,
while living freely here in reality.
No-longer notorious unable to express
in poetry. Beauty is the promise
and reward of personal illumination.
Some notice the yearning for,
few will attempt to fight for it
and rare is the one who masters it,
being called mystic.

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)

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)

Cliche beginnings, eye catching glances, images layed over heart, ****** lust. Touching civilization. Constant linage over time. Felt and now posed in forever. Flamed passions, wild hearts, glaring from the eyes.
Heaven smiles. Earth blushes.
No longer to argue with society, protesting against, never. Inclined to give in. Forgetting about the normality of life, where others suffer. Love left to experience as something happens to others is sill and thought dripping poetry, is now one’s own hands. A souls liberty. Dream fulfilling. Intimate moments. Mimicking poems. Glowing engagement between two.
If it’s told in theatre, proposals for immortality.
Shocked and accidental.
No sense of possibly returning.
For they are not who I had expected. Neo. How saving hee, never. Oh how love deems and falls, melting over one, like gold over marble. For I never asked, dreamt of, or even yearned for. Though they are there and I cannot turn away.  
Normal in love.
Different outside the normality of where we both come from.
Whimpering without, like a child
and I roar when she’s around.
Feeling utterly untouchable, brave to be thyself as we experience contentment.
Poetry follows but will never emulate.
(knowledge variable)

By Darcy Prince

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Checking the phone. She hasn’t messaged me.

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

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

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

Any romantic art, whether it be poems or cinema. It’s an expression
of teases to those who hadn’t never experience. But a slap to your
face for those who had meet that one and fell into the fear of following
through. Now your friends are watching your back and you’re too
near me. Let all poetry now, scorn you with truth, moths eating dreams,
fireflies to taunt. Embers over earth. Haunting methods to be felt in
flowing waves of regret and despair.
For nobody likes the ones in love. Sparking questions of ‘why can’t we
be like that?’ After they gasped in awe. Burning candles. For nobody
likes the ones in live. Only love can ever devalue progressed work
and any else, held to the chest in sentimentality. Hopeless romantics
now a career path in the arts. Teasing humanity with their words.
Smile for me now (couldn’t help noticing your pain).

My feelings are tremendously painful to experience, but they're real, as for now, it's a personal truth

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

It's’ easier to suffer
than it is to love,
love is in the wait,
suffering is in the now.

closed minds,
provide for the loudest mouths,
while everyone is
quietly weird

The only thing that fades in our lifetime,
despite our decaying bodies. Is that of
true love, we’ve all meet them and at
most times, in passionless passages
duration in unpoetic times, we’ve let
them go. Poetry, everyone knows you
and scream your name in heartbreak,
never again will you be alone

(why must I be so hard-headed?)
First glance, it was nothing but beauty,
but oh no, can’t touch,
my mind is thy & no one is for sale,
send demons on them

What determines my character?

Like loss, it's more than letting go or peace in a gradual process. Our own mind has freedom, call it intelligence or imagination. We all know the truth & falsehood. But our self-realization is a combination of things, lead through experience. Slowly, we learn, call it truth, but it's a painful process of discovery or learning of our personal painful-regret. In not only what we did with our time. but to the time spent thinking about what we did, to those whom we loved too knowing we were only there for them. It's uncanny at times how we're thrown out of our normal life, coming to grips of what we wasted on, for most it offers time of self reflection. Regretting what we cared about, bounded upon on petty concerns or the things we thought we loved & it's not true. Troubling to the loss of time.

In death or painful transitions, we'll look back & question what we were doing? For most, death is a thought of whats for the unknown, what’s on the other side, but for me, it’s a starkly reminder of the things we cannot experience in our liftetime, the people we want to meet, the people we wanna love, the cultures we want to go see. When in normality or that comfort of an environment we have grown to know, our emotions tend to tell us, death isn't coming and how we got some much time Ideals, when it’s normal, when we feel alright, our thinking ceases. Ideals are made to let us know who we can be, the pain of not putting effort into it will be far Superior to the daily pain of not doing so.

I’m not writing this in support of some doctrine, dogma, religion or philosophy.

The best ever compliment that I’ve ever received, is that I’m good enough

And the worst thing I could ever say to myself, don't ever change.

There’s politics, religion, culture. Things that people, families, communities, states, whoever had gone to war over. But no one ever protests ideas. With what we call truth & lies, there’s nothing to determine that besides our very emotional attachment. At the moment, I render that at the end of learning is absolutes, knowing the minds of gods, the daily lives of cultured masters and secrets of the common people, dead or alive.

Its ideas with a heartbeat and we attach ourselves to attainable actions when it’s exhausted, it’s either mundane or normal, comfortable or even useless, cause we don’t feel it.

This isn’t to make anyone feel bad or even to prove anyone wrong.

But there’s a price to pay when thinking for oneself. Hearing about the world being a totality of things, if one isn’t puzzled about it, life, society, civilization, culture or politics, it’s a possibility one is replica mind of another or it’s under total control. Is it better to work out consciously and critically one's own conception of the world and thus, in connection with the labours of one's own brain, choose one's sphere of activity, take an active part in the creation of the history of the world, be one's own guide, refusing to accept passively and supinely from outside the moulding of one' own personality? People hesitate. People tend not to think when the flow of life is normal. No one ever thinks about their external environment, whether it be peers, family, lovers or their spouse, not even the actions their dictate. What determines quality? It’s hard to come to grips when one’s internal life isn’t reflected in the external outside times of pain and suffering or feeling flat, when we’re starkly reminded of we’re doing the right thing or not?

It’s hard to let go of things that we care about, a community, a lover, a friend or even a daily routine such as coffee in the morning. All things come to an end and I think death is the harshness of reality. I say this stuff in order to think about one's character rather appeasing the external. Our very mind controls so much of it, often, if it feels good, we generally don’t think about it until those painful moments. None of what I’m saying is new, we can admire people on what they do, but despite who they are, example, we can admire someone creating an altruistic company but doing on an external command, like for wages or being a model employee. Fleeing ideas, forgetting what we’re doing. Often we do things in hopes of appeasing the outside or what we do will amount to contentment in the future.  I’m not supporting the self-doing something for the selfishness of self-interest, but to develop a character of balance where it’s fulfilling, having the essentials as the bonus is a contribution to reality.

In a way, I am supporting one to develop a personalized individual philosophy. Feeling and knowing can be two completely different things. The now is a letting go of not only the personal past that's lived but of the future one will never experience.

By doing so, you’ll learn a lot, of not only what one is doing with their time, but to our peers, family and lovers. It’s shocking to how much the external is here for only that. And it’s worse to know when one has to gradual learn how to self develop into self-validation.

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

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

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

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

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.

(What madness it is to fit in.
There’s pain, share it with me.)
Live or die, ******* to this body, mind, heart, soul
and my muse has nothing else to do, to render me
intoxicated with the wisdom she brings. It’s all in
time. I am that other. I’ve atoned my past and I’m
awakened, consolation for my future. No-loner
waiting for that afterlife, bless, living it now. For I’ve
meet them, behind the curtains and as for death.
I’ve died already. Smile for me now.

To surpass my own suffering, is to forgive
and let go. No-one to hold onto, no-one
to lean upon, as I cry, no-one there to hear
me calling, so I continue falling, until I
self-destruct and force myself to build up.
In the end, I’ll be alone, isolation in dying
Moments. There is no point in life, where
the suffering will stop. But it would be a
dull world, if I never experienced pain.
I’ll see you at the crossroads, if not, I’ll
see you when I pass death, sinner or saint.

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.

Let our very essence entwine, in our
breathe when we lean in to kiss. Souls
marrying, as our bodies make love.

Poetry, I have a life to live. Let me not
be swallowed in by you poetry, let not
my either, labyrinth, my mystique, or
my veil or parts of my character go in
to your fog poetry. There is more to life
than to lay down and read you poetry.
Regardless how raw or immense, or
how much I could benefit from. I have
a life to live. I just want to live. At
least as I live in solitude, you poetry
eases the pain I feel. I’ll give you that.
I’ll give you that poetry.

the days may seem long poetry,
but ive lived more in
the words i write, than anywhere else

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)

Perhaps the use of poetry, is to be used
to heal heartbreak wounds, piercing from
one’s soul. The pain is long and forever
deepening, as this life is too brief for it to
heal. Remember young poet, in times of
bitter loneliness, you’re still attached to this world
and anyone reads your poems, they’re
attached to you and if they cry as a result,
momentarily the loneliness lessens. There
is no greater search, than the one whos
looks for their soulmate and refuses to believe
they live in myth.

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)

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.

A poet becomes, when a poet finds the world
outside, unsatisfactory. Not to inspire that world,
be drawing attention to themselves, to be inspired
or proven wrong. Not admitting it’s true love that
they all want. Children to life. Slaves to reality.
Caged in desirous love. Limited in art creation.
Do not render to poets for anything. Live life.
There is only one of those. (When my face got
cut up, I got told that God don’t like ugly. So
every night, I go to sleep with a pistol in my hand.
And one open, just like the Masons. Don't feed into
the world.)

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)