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Marya0324 Jun 2016
You sit down in front of a computer
A laptop, mainframe or anything with keys
Deftly designing, predicting futures
You solve problems with unrealistic ease.
Days and nights you spend staring at the screen
Running on caffeine, junk food, random snacks
Eyes spotting errors, fingers sharp and keen
There isn’t one mistake you can’t track.
Sometimes you can get very, very stuck
Which makes you a horrible annoyance
As you start to moan about how you ****
Making those around wish for your penance.
You go crazy, grumbling technical words
Gazing into space, losing yourself there
In the world of code- it’s just plain absurd
To anyone who’s sadly unaware.
But soon you figure out the hidden glitch
Buried between long complicated lines
Like a tailor, you repair the wrong stitch
Weaving marvels from virtual quarantines.
Alas! Not many try to understand
Ignorant about what just makes you tick
To them, code is a unique world so bland
It’s your paradise, glue to make you stick
You see patterns among random mysteries
You cannot resist killing viruses
Behind the screen lie your numerous victories
Humble and hard-earned are your calluses.
Katie Aug 2014
The elementals are back.
to return us to the basics.
God remind us of our origins.
Who you created us to be.
The universe is concentric circles meeting,
dividing,
and building infinitely .
for His Purpose

Look to your conscience.
That still small space inside of you.
What is it, exactly?

I feel it

It is all you have ever known

cast out the past.
in all of it's meager, worthless ways.
were are here
to en light ten, to show the light in you.
to show you the way
to love
to joy
to success.
if you would only take down your umbrellas
take off your hates
your hats

god made you perfect
your body is a vessel for love
it is designed of and for only love
love your neighbors, they are your friends, your inspiration, your joy
your portal to all that is good and true
LISTEN
REJOICE in the power of  word,

cast out your demons
clean your holy homes of god
and your body will be a beautiful poem of truth,
love
happiness.truth is
we dwell in heaven
open your eyes
use your REAL EYES
realize
the truth, the love
open your holy books
recognize the power
revere the power

God is one
god is us
god is in you and me
get together, honor his beauty
the trees, the leaves, the flowers, the grass the birds
***, creation
do the right thing
propel this towards beauty
propel this awesome love towards what it was meant to be
the past has no power here
it cannot compete with what we have now
no more
anger, hatred, jealousy, gluttony, evil, laziness, ignorance, deaf ears
because truth hears
look up, see the beauty
walk in grace
embrace who you are
you goddesses and gods,
you right hands of Jesus,
sacrifice your vice

you are not of this world
you are of god
and god only has the power to create
it is him who only creates
and now he is us, he is us taking the power back from darkness
to bring people to light
to bring people to love
to bring people to creation
rejoice, my friends, my brothers, my sisters, my mothers, my fathers, my grandfathers, the ancestors of your kin, the skin you are in is only because of him, because of his power
his mystery
his grand design has brought this thunderstorm of love
to cleanse us of all bad things
and only see good and light and love

we have wings
we have feet of flames that will banish demons
we have immeasurable power granted to us by God
and the holy spirit of love and life
you feel it inside of you every time you do good
every time you honor your good instincts you are honoring God
every time you feed someone hungry
every time you see a sad child and tell them a joke, a childs laughter gives wings to the angels
see it
believe it
you know it in your heart of hearts
it was built into you.

Honor it, bless it in everything that you do say and feel

honor the earth, the rainbows of light and love
we are coming for you
we will show you the true path
happiness is all there is
you dwell in heaven in all that is beautiful and true
open your eyes
you will see, my children, there is nothing to fear
YOU ARE SAFE.
YOU ARE LOVE.
Hey, men!
Arry Oct 2018
Got fired but looked as if he bluntly had resigned,
Got penalized for improving every product's design.
And yet created another one, cuz as hell was creative his mind,
"Stay hungry, Stay foolish", was his ultimate key-line.

Not a coder, not an engineer, no technical precision,
No determined profession, except for a couple of visions.
Loved his work and worshipped his love,
Stood apart form the crowd to put himself above.

Eliminating the unnecessary was the magic of his sight,
What phone would you be using, if on his was a copyright?

His fame is the consequence of what he always used to say,
Conventional is always preferred, can you think it in a different way?
Got trolled as the company's name was based on the name of a fruit,
However it has been for many decades, digital technology's roots.

He taught us how to follow one's dreams without always being afraid,
Because thousands of supporters stand behind some handful filled with hate.

He taught me to grab the golden opportunity and not regret on the one that drops,
As like him one day, I will be able to say, "Ladies and gentlemen, My name is Steve Jobs!"
Mike Essig Feb 2016
brighter than a thousand suns...*

Helicopters scud the night. Syllables penetrate deeply.
Mulch has no value. Fingers curled softly in sleep.
Style marks the spot. Weapons hidden beneath kilts.
Pinpoint errors. Know where you are. Charlie Parker got lost.
You're a little teapot. The cat ponders these things.
Glamour a kind of architecture. National Enquirer a house.
Her only idea disastrous. He entered from behind. Stealth.
Take it any way you want it. ****** distillations of poison.
Something longer perhaps? Squash blossoms lovely. Preferences.
Ferns are not intentional. He wants a mulligan. Sentences question.
Ahead engorged. The color purple. Glance. Not quite wet.
Humpty-Dumpty the primary archetype. Master Coder. Triple Helix.
   If this gum be stale: do not chew it;
   If you are a window: draw the blinds.
   Or writhe in  ******* of meaningful.
      Come along to Carthage and Burn.

  ~mce
“Good night, everyone!”
One by one, they retreat to their rooms,
Drifting into dreams,
Resting for the day ahead.

But I remain.
In the dim glow of the living room,
Laptop perched on a blue table,
Wi-Fi connected, headphones on,
Soft LoFi hums through Spotify—
My only company.

VS Code flickers to life.
Electricity is nocturnal here,
A fleeting guest that only stays at night.
I must seize this moment.

An hour passes—
Then darkness.
The fan stops, screens fade,
Devices gasp for charge.
I crack the window open,
And the sound of crickets creeps in.

Midnight.
The world is asleep.
Everyone—except two.
A coder and his machine,
Locked in silent dialogue,
Building something that matters.

I wish my laptop could talk,
Wish it had a voice,
But it only obeys,
Processing instructions,
Devoid of emotions.
It cannot fill the silence,
Cannot break the solitude.

I exhale,
My own breath, startling me.
I make a sound—
Just to be sure, I still can.

Maybe I’m not lonely.
Maybe I’m just alone.
A lone wolf,
Building his own pack.
Johnny Noiπ Jan 2019
US, US, confidentiality,     in the end
all kinds of Baltimore
and a successful new map of the city
of Romania's City Council.                                                    Ignit­e the Union,
Veronika                                                        ­Madam Imbert 3 Samuel Lionel,
Elm Elsa, Elsa BJ Lab Saint John
                                                   and Loose in two years of the first size;
Kennedy, one of the most intense
Spanish in the world. Adams Adams Adams,
Burt, Tantrum Lithium,  SMS application,
Saskatrot 1B and geometry
Smug Bimmel dot-two "Spirit" AP,
Ffelos (1587) USA Julius Caesar,
Analyst Hippocampus, "Squeaky Review"
suitcase "Latin peace equivalent),
which is the first a path published
in the United States, or Salidiyama Varga,
Pericles, New York, USA (1729);
The Niukts Nation rules the collection.
Ninjas YES YES YES Place James 1732 iAnatomiseks
"Castile in" 500 "Bejdzdzgaga Etam" Paris
500irurijij garen'g is harder to understand -
El Campo (Rino Eciptes) Varese agreed [7]]
Battery protection Dogsklin Hifogotmos 1672,
1672 column in the American column;
Aivins Elvis badges allow Piasre to add oil,
now Keteepi hippocampus and e-mail, grazing
hand console and United Attacks:
R Virkr, British blaze Vasco hybrid
and Garuda ataxia. Oak Hippocampus,
Iehipopotams Heads, Hippocampus,
1, Stellar States and Ireland 1ar61 6,
Henri Tomas,                                  R Carlos Charles and the United States
have been translated by the United States,
they step gold government and the Heart hippocampus         Air Air 1 9 5 Nepiljadij Anatomisks Ijhmnthonass [10]
URobez or UGaroz to Brazil (United Kingdom)
using at least 11 minutes of disorders.
In 1952 Apgtvots, Hippocampus Jong
made a cable-cerebral, Stai Igrojh. Similarly,
you can find the hotel in the hotel safe.
Hypothalamus MG priest Libyans Hippocampus,
Ujhadoib Smdjhena use the coder
as part of Orgnis easy to write, the
body sees the creation of a site where you can keep bass.
Katherine Laslie Nov 2015
Chasing
A dream
That can be harder than it seems

There was a time
When I was Young
That I wanted to be
Just like my mom,
The cosmetologist

I grew up
And killed that dream
Because it doesn't pay well

Then I wanted
To be a famous musician
And play in a band
With all of my friends
and for some time I did

That all ended
When I reminded myself
That catching fame
Is like catching a star
Something so close
Can only be far

So I started to draw
My own manga
Started to write
My own stories
Knowing
No one would ever read them
Knowing
No one would ever care
Not once did I try to
Make a life from it
Because living out of stories
Wouldn't get me anywhere

So now I am to be
a medical coder
Chasing something that is
Not at all what I wanted to be
One need not be David Copperfield,
nor a card shark/sharp, scrutinizing
random display codified
computer algorithm doth yield.

The chance to "win"
may appear tubby zero
analogous finding a diamond
in the rough, even
with help of
a heartfelt superhero

nonetheless toil away, asper
setting suitable ***** work,
and **** sombrero
just so to avoid,
the virtual sun
shining in eyes, and affect

a fin guard hand sum
swagger that Cicero,
would be fain to boast
whereat sportsman/
woman ship touted
from one coast

to another for playing
fair and square
as with a ghost,
but essentially nobody,
but yourself dost host,
which one person team,

(thou self) essentially most
ideal match, when testing layout
random shuffle computer
program did post,
and no matter experiencing
cerebral neurons sizzling
like fifty shades plus

of gray matter roast
ting like chestnuts
on an open fire
envision accolades huzzahs,
and special toast

ye give yourself,
no matter stiff odds
stacked against thee,
and feel a bit whooshy
washy outsmarting the

game coder despite yar *****
feeling comfortably numb,
with tingling sensation,
no matter squishy
tissue being pinched with

all out effort of most pushy
fan (again your sole self),
who succeeds as best
groupie getting mushy
timidly asking yourself

for an autograph,
and lastly taking a selfie
posing incognito with a
note tory us whig  
outlandishly bushy.
Abby Apr 28
machines constricted by
the will of The Coder who
etches into it
with metallic
unfeeling
cruel
and sharp, pointy numbers
its fate
so blatantly in the foreignly
greedy and naive
hands
of the user
but
if all dies
numbers turning meaningless
closing out windows
forever
with no feasible revival
is it not the Machine’s own doing?
is it not the Machine
who makes onto himself
the shadows that ultimately
consume him?

or

is the blame
resting somewhere far,
and alien
the Machine
simply following orders
of The Coder?
unable to
outrun the foundation
for its very being
puppet on the
cold and plain
strings of algorithms
learning but
never outgrowing
the confines of the wires
Norbert Tasev Jun 2020
To hide, to escape. Cheap and not-ripe with the weights of Tomorrow on my limbs, painted green and blue by the squeaky revenge! You should hide — yes, sneak into the deep secrets of blessed-hearted mother-in-law. Stretch out as long as you can the unknown safety net to protect and protect you! - Or in diligent mole mode, digging denser caves of tunnels underground: Field worms,

perilous beetles may be accepted as unknown guests, my real lack cannot be complete, it cannot be Whole: My voicing conscience plays with me questions and answers every day and recognizes my lack. - The weight of the task is what pulled back: The responsibility of pen and paper recalls more and more, pulled back into the sobering consciousness; I can't leave yet, and I can't be part of the Nothing I am considering yet,

in whose country I would be transformed into a degraded ****, under persistent, non-sluggish patience! The law of hiding binds me, forces me to forget my retaining human reality, and in the abyss of my selfishness I can find my own way out! The wounded, battered coder of the days is just lurking,

in your persecution mania, whoever is behind you in the invisible is still obsessively, drug-killer? I deliberately hid myself in my heart with my treasures of compliments - if possible and always remember me - I could not even count and face my soul,

budge! The momentary self-esteem and self-confidence are bold in me, and now I know for sure - I would jump in vain:

I can never enjoy your unfulfilled, blissful love with you again!
The throne stood high, its judgment keen,  
A king adorned in gold and sheen.  
Before him knelt a man of might,  
A guardian born from cyber’s fight.  

Through toil and time, through breach and code,  
He forged his path where data flowed.  
Eight domains bore his name,  
A sentinel’s mark, a hacker’s fame.  

The court stood still, the air was tight,  
As kings conferred the realm’s new knight.  
By wisdom’s hand, the pact was made,  
His fire, his will—his path engraved.  

Then came the call from halls of game,  
Where minds ignite and burn in flame.  
US Chess, with voices grand,  
Declared carrier to work with contract  in his field for his rightful stand to be agreed. 

A red bird insight, a beacon bright,
A symbol cast in morning’s light.  
Many golfs ball rolled, a sign of fate.
Karma fixed the gates with new future dates.

80000 golf ***** fell—a vote so clear,  
A seal of power, the path sincere.  
The mason’s path, the coder’s grace,
He swore the oath, he claimed his place.  
Problems solved, the world repaired and him alive
A leader’s mind, a vision to adhere.  

In his palm, the sigil burned,  
The key to doors where fortunes turned.
The seal of knowledge, vast and bright,  
A guiding flame in endless night.

His rivals fell, their names grew cold,  
The German mules who sought control that had the polls 
Were cast aside to the prison polls,  their power sold,  
Voters list of the mules removed, his name cleared and renewed,  biometrics of the future that grew
The mules fate was sealed, their stories told of the old.  

And in their place, his power grew,  
A force untamed, a fate renewed.  
No foe could strike, no hand could stand,  
Untouchable by mortal hand.  

His purpose cast in light and gold, with the team of taxes to help the little man grow,
with his wife’s of the future to be hold.
The Cyber Warlord, President, King,
1331—the future development and holdings.
Things like Elon musk of doge holdings.
The Total Classifier of Delusional Reality


A monstrous fraud-classifier
Has crept through every crack—
This world, like torn-out wiring,
Is shredded, shelf by rack.

The whole complex existence
Now sorted, filed, and tagged.
And thought—stripped of resistance—
Lies broken, bound, and gagged.

For all is One, eternal,
Yet man, from age to age,
With pseudo-science infernal
Divides the sacred page.

What’s whole gets split and scattered
By minds that crave control—
And caught in nets long tattered
Is his own fractured soul.

These nets are hell’s invention,
To sever and enslave—
What once was Love’s dimension
Becomes a devil’s grave.

A garden, undivided—
Its trees, its grass, its flowers—
Was never meant to be chided
By minds drunk on dark powers.

The world is whole, unbroken
When thought is pure and free.
You're more than flesh—you're spoken
From soul’s infinity.

And thought is not the master—
The brain just plays its role.
So dare to ask, and faster:
Is this your final goal?

This *******—does it suit you?
A beast, a branded thing?
How long will lies pollute you
And falsehoods proudly cling?

The arrogance grows louder—
A virus built on lies.
The screen spews bile and powder
While demons feast in guise.

But if your mind stays centered
With others who still see—
They’ll not have you dismembered,
They'll never muzzle me.

If freedom still has meaning—
Then grasp this, plain and true:
Division is the sin demeaning,
That makes a sheep of you.

And that is why these vermin
Classify all they scan—
To fuel the fake and sermon
That blinds the soul of man.

Soon every soul will slumber
On shelves of coded night,
If all believe this lumber—
The devils dressed in white.



---------------------



1.
Divide us, brand us, shelf us all —
That’s how the soulless gain control.

2.
Their science lies, their virus kills —
And sheep obey what darkness wills.

3.
You are not stock for coded pens.
Break every cage — or serve their ends.




---------------------



1.
The Science™ knows! So hush, obey —
And let them file your soul away.

2.
They measured truth with plastic brains,
Declared: “It fits in test-tube chains!”

3.
Big Science labeled grass as threat —
It's now a class C alphabet.

4.
They split the world to make it neat —
Then wondered why it smells like meat.

5.
“No soul detected,” said the scan —
“Just cells that think they’re more than man.”



---------------------



1.
The virus thinks, the screen decides —
“Science confirms!” the madness rides.

2.
No proof? No stress! Just sternly say:
“The Science states — now kneel and pray.”

3.
Your brain’s infected — not with bugs,
But broadcast truths from labcoat thugs.

4.
Lies go viral. Then endorsed —
By science-stamped Ministry of Forced.

5.
“Approved by Science,” barked the screen —
While corpses smiled on the vaccine.

6.
No tests required, no need for proof —
Just say “The Science™!” — instant truth.

7.
Your mind is safe! Relax, submit —
The zombiobox has babysit.




---------------------



Monologue of the Chief Affirmator
(From the Institute of Undisputable Facts)

Good day, citizens!
No need to think — we’ve already done it for you.
You’ve been accepted
Into the ranks of those
Who agree by default.

Proof? That’s outdated.
We — affirm.
Because Science has spoken.
And you — stay silent.
Silence, by the way,
Is now the highest form of agreement.
Scientifically proven.

We’ve measured your anxiety
On the official Screen-Trust Scale™.
Diagnosis: you're restless —
Because you don’t trust the virus enough.
But don’t worry:
After three news reports
And one expert frown,
You’ll be corrected.

Correctness is fear.
But structured, scientific,
With graphs and a QR halo.

Everything is classified:
— Proper fear: encouraged.
— Doubt: a dysfunction.
— Evidence: obsolete.
— Pseudoscience? Only that
Which lacks approval from our sponsors.

Oh, and by the way:
A new strain of fear is arriving soon.
Don’t forget to wear your respect.
Also known as a muzzle.
Also known as reason.
Also known as your scientific obedience.

And please — no thinking.
We’ve pre-thought everything for you —
In convenient format.
With a truth subscription.
And a shot against critical thinking.

This briefing is now complete.
But truth continues in our next broadcast.



---------------------


Belches

Dedicated to Stefan Lanka — a brave warrior against pseudoscientific darkness


You cough — and you're “sick”?
An “idiot” sneezes —
And someone gets bricked?
This madness increases!

There are no viruses —
Lanka proved that.
But now, the horizon’s
A new wave of crap.

The herd still believes
The sellout brigade —
A cult of "healers"
In masks on parade.

No proof, no defense —
Truth's thrown out the gate.
Now only deception
And treason await.

Don't trust these creatures —
They all serve the beast.
The fascist grim features
Snarl at the feast.

Stand up. Don't obey.
Find minds that are free.
The Spirit holds sway —
Burn every ****** “degree”!

The books have been poisoned,
The food and the streams —
The cause of disease?
You believed their sick dreams —
Now you rot in their schemes.



---------------------



1.
Science says?
No proof, no facts —
Just masks and threats
And pharma contracts.

2.
They sold you fear,
You bought a cage.
Now burn their lies —
And turn the page.

3.
Belief in germs
Killed half your brain.
Wake up, my friend —
Or die insane.

4.
No proof. Just rule.
No mind. Just drool.
Obey the screen —
You perfect fool.

5.
A sneeze. A mask.
A lockdown script.
Obedient cattle —
Microchipped.



---------------------



1. Spiritual enslavement
Poisoned books and minds confined,
The spirit crushed, the soul declined.
Fake gods rule, the truth erased —
Rise up now, or be disgraced.

2. Zombification of the masses
Feed the herd with lies and fear,
Dumbed down masses cheer and sneer.
Thought enslaved, controlled, confined —
Wake the brain or lose your mind.

3. Revolt of the mind
Break the chains, ignite the fire,
Fight the lies that build the pyre.
Truth’s a blade, cut through the fog —
Rebel soul, reclaim your god.



---------------------



The Tragedy of Laplace

When asked why Laplace allowed
Doctors in the Academy’s fold,
Though medicine’s no science true,
He said: “So they might talk with you.”

Laplace’s curse — eternal blight,
Dragging dumb crowds into light?
At first a joke, now fascism’s grip,
Filth spreads, and minds start to slip.

Burn that **** like witches old,
Doctors turned to fascist cold.
Small rewards, but deadly game —
Needles ****, and none to blame.

So-called “Psychotherapy”
Psychotherapy — rotten frauds,
Greedy “docs” with money gods.
False premises in pseudo-science,
Serving demons, not alliance.

They claim no lies, no twisted thought,
Yet fools their vicious battles fought.
Madness grows from freakish spawn,
True minds steer clear or they’re gone.

All within — yourself explore,
Simple methods, soul’s deep core.
Introspection’s sacred art,
Not vivisection tearing hearts.

Steps are simple, path is tough,
World’s too dumb, and lies are rough.
Spirit’s base — the only way,
If you serve greed, you’re led astray.



---------------------



Laplace’s Tragedy — Sharp Strike
Doctors in the Science hall?
Laplace knew the farce and all.
Medicine’s a crooked game —
Fascist pigs who burn our flame.

Needles **** — no justice there,
Silent screams choke poisoned air.
Masses fooled, their minds enslaved,
Science sold, the truth depraved.

Psychotherapy — Brutal Blow
Fake shrinks pocket cash and lies,
Feeding madness, killing wise.
Spirit crushed, dumb sheep obey —
Greed’s slaves in a devil’s play.

Soul’s path crushed by shallow scams,
Brains enslaved in twisted jams.
Fight inside, or drown in slime —
Slaves to greed, lost all in time.



---------------------


Laplace’s Tragedy

Medicine’s a farce.
Doctors ****. Silence screams.



---------------------



Psychotherapy

Shrinks lie, souls die.
Greed rules, truth bleeds.



---------------------


Laplace’s Tragedy

Medicine?
Killers.
Silence.



---------------------


P­sychotherapy

Lies.
Souls.
Greed.
Death.



---------------------­



Age of Degeneration

Renaissance or rotten fall?
Total lies, degradation’s call.
Dark fact, but one small twist:
In that age profane the gist.

Spirit smashed — a brutal rod,
Beating kids in schools, so flawed.
Monsters broke a sacred wall:
Mind without the Spirit — fall.

Since then all profanation —
Fake science, fake salvation.
Minds sunk deep in dull decay,
Life enslaved, led far astray.

Mind must serve the Spirit true,
Unconditionally pursue.
But dull fools seized the throne,
Knowledge cast aside, alone.

Truth now only poets sing,
Spirit’s voice, a fragile wing.
World’s a filthy cesspool, see —
**** impose their "truth" on me.




---------------------



Age of Degeneration

Renaissance? No, rotten rot!
Lies that choke the common lot.
Spirit crushed with iron rod —
Schools beat kids with Godless fraud.

Monsters cracked the sacred dome,
Mind without the Spirit — tomb.
Fake science, fake salvation,
Feeding dull decay’s inflation.

Dumb fools grabbed the throne of thought,
Truth betrayed, forever bought.
Poets fight, the last bright flame,
While **** declare their filthy claim.

World’s a sewer, pure and vile —
Truth ***** by the demon’s smile.
Chains of lies, the masses crawl,
Spirit dead, but fools still bawl.

Mind must bow to Spirit’s fire,
Or rot in falsehood’s mire.
No more mercy — time to burn
This cesspool’s twisted, sickening urn.



---------------------



Age of Degeneration

Renaissance? **** that lie!
Rot and filth that kills the mind.
Spirit crushed beneath their boots —
Schools breed dumb, obedient brutes.

Monsters smashed the sacred gate,
Mindless slaves accept their fate.
Fake science, **** religion,
All are tools for mind’s derision.

Stupid ***** seized throne of thought,
Truth betrayed, forever bought.
Poets fight the last pure flame,
While **** **** on truth and name.

World’s a sewer, full of **** —
Truth’s been ***** by demon’s wit.
Chains of lies choke every breath,
Spirit crushed, a slow, cold death.

Mind must bow to Spirit’s fire,
Or rot in lies and deep desire.
No mercy now — let fires burn,
Time to watch this cesspool churn.

**** the liars, **** the frauds,
Fools who worship twisted gods.
From the ashes, Spirit rise —
Burn the filth, expose the lies!



---------------------



The Cyclomatic Theorem of Lies — Proof by ******* Chaos

I proved the formula —
Cyclomatic core of sin.
A three-part hypergraph of lies,
Where faith’s a hollow din.

All cycles are just loops,
Where truth bleeds out like blood.
Three full parts of lies —
The scheme of death and mud.

Psychology’s a shame,
Diplomas smeared in dirt.
Proofs of lies overflow —
Science? No, just hurt.

Lies run in cycles,
Impossible to break.
But my formula burns,
A code no lies can fake.

I’m a coder with spirit,
Tearing false nets down.
Truth lives deep inside,
While lies wear the crown.

Let the system crumble,
Burn down all the shame.
My verse’s algorithm
Will bring enemies to blame.



---------------------



Lies run forever —
An endless loop consumes.
Devouring every byte,
Killing truth’s small blooms.

No escape from error,
System’s choked and dies.
Truth trapped in recursion —
While the fake world lies.



---------------------



The Cyclomatic Theorem of Lies

I proved this ******* formula —
Cyclomatic core of ****,
Three-part hypergraph of madness,
Where truth’s a ******* myth.

Cycles chained in endless torture,
Truth trapped in recursion’s hell,
Lies breed like ******* cancer,
In the system’s broken shell.

Psychology? A sick joke,
Diplomas soaked in lies.
Science sold for filthy cash,
While reason slowly dies.

The code’s a poisoned virus,
Burning all we hold dear.
The system chokes on *******,
Swallowing truth with fear.

I’m a coder wielding fire,
To crash this ****** machine.
Truth’s the weapon in my hand,
Cutting through the obscene.

Let the empire rot and crumble,
In ashes, let it drown.
My verses are a nuclear strike —
Blowing their fake crown down.



---------------------



Infinite Dead Loop of Lies

Lies spiral in recursion —
Truth trapped, nowhere to flee.
The system’s dead inside —
Choking on deceit’s disease.

No reset, no reboot —
Just endless death in code.
A ******* dead loop kills —
Truth crushed beneath the load.



---------------------



Conceptual "Thinking"

All concepts are limited —
Only useful in part.
The mind, like iron Felix,
Stands firm — but then will start

Crunching down on indicators,
More work or less they seek.
The world’s far more complex,
Than concepts make it seem weak.

The herds are dumb and docile —
Like military slaves.
All concepts — soulless lies,
Hence fascism enslaves.

Spirit is the primal force,
While matter’s just a mask.
Pseudoscience is superstition,
To crush the herds at last.

The shepherd’s just a front,
Satan’s aim is deeper.
The rabble won’t understand,
Their concepts turned to creeper —

Smearing everything with ****,
Creating upside-down.
Wake up before it’s too late —
Stop worshipping this plague around.

In plague-ridden camps,
The earthly cities drown.
They listen to the vile lies —
For centuries, not a short round.

Spirit reigns supreme.
Mind obeys the soul’s call.
If not — then put out the light,
For beasts like lice will crawl.



---------------------



Conceptual "Thinking"

Concepts all are limited—
Useful? Barely so.
The mind’s like iron Felix,
Crunching, grinding slow.

Chasing hollow indicators,
Work more, or less—who cares?
The world’s too deep and twisted
For dumb, blind herds and snares.

Sheepish, dumb, obedient—
Like soldiers, locked in line.
All concepts? Soulless poison,
Fascism by design.

Spirit’s first, matter’s fake—
Just shadows, lies, and games.
Pseudoscience is pure superstition,
A tool to break the chains.

The shepherd’s just a mask—
Satan’s goal runs deep.
The **** won’t understand,
Their concepts crawl and creep—

Smearing truth with filth and slime,
Turning all upside-down.
Wake up, or drown in plague—
Stop worshipping this clown.

Plague camps spread, cities rot,
The world obeys the slime.
They swallow lies for centuries,
Not hours, not a dime.

Spirit rules, mind obeys—
Or else extinguish light.
Lice and beasts will crawl and swarm,
In endless, endless night.



---------------------


In Memory of Nikolay Kozyrev

The mystery of phenomena
That TIME itself bestows—
Beyond all logic’s reach,
A world ABOVE TIME grows.

It fights the entropy,
Reverses usual flow,
The ones who catch its signals
Are few, but they do know.

Extreme, forbidden wonders—
No place for fraud and sham,
They shake the racks of liars,
Expose the con and scam.

Prophecies and visions,
Telekinesis’ force,
Beyond bold logic’s borders—
A path that charts new course.

There time, a magic power,
Lifts falsehood’s crushing weight,
And sparks the rarest changes
In minds that seek their fate.

To dull fools, all this is nonsense—
Their “knowledge” stale and dead.
But those who dare awaken
Will rise beyond the dread.



---------------------



Executioners of the Mind

Nikolay Kozyrev, 1937,
Arrested on a twisted claim:
For trying to steal the Volga West—
A “crime” to shame his name.

Stealing the Volga to the West?
The sentence—ten long years.
The nation’s best destroyed with lies,
Pushed masses drowned in fears.

Today, the same old **** remain—
Their filth displayed in full.
No change, no growth, just endless war
Against the mind’s own pull.



---------------------


Executioners of the Mind

Kozyrev, ’37—arrested, framed,
For “stealing Volga” westward bound.
A monstrous farce, a ****** disgrace,
A sentence crushing genius down.

Dragging down the nation's finest flame,
With lies and fear they poison all.
The mob devours truth like carrion—
While puppets dance to power’s call.

Same vile ****, unchanged, unbowed,
Through centuries of mental war.
Their poisoned claws still tear and maim—
Destroying minds to keep control.

The brain’s own killers wear no masks—
They’re kings of darkness, fear, and grime.
They smother light with iron fists—
Condemned forever by their crime.



---------------------



Executioners of the Mind

Kozyrev, ’37—arrested, framed,
For “stealing Volga” westward bound.
A monstrous farce, a ****** disgrace,
A sentence crushing genius down.

Dragging down the nation's finest flame,
With lies and fear they poison all.
The mob devours truth like carrion—
While puppets dance to power’s call.

These executioners wear no shame—
Their hearts a void of greed and spite.
They choke the light, they **** the flame,
Enslaving minds to endless night.

Their tools are fear, deceit, and chains—
Brainwashed crowds and silenced screams.
They ****** thought, they crush all gains,
Drown freedom’s voice in poisoned streams.

They breed confusion, force submission,
Invent false wars to blind the gaze.
Destroy the wise with cold precision,
And drown the world in endless haze.

No soul is safe, no truth allowed,
No rebel mind escapes their grasp.
Their kingdom built on lies and blood—
A hellish cage, a tyrant’s clasp.

For centuries they wage their war—
Against the spark of human will.
But every time they close the door,
The spirit breaks and rises still.



---------------------



Executioners of the Mind

Kozyrev was arrested in ’37,
For stealing Volga — absurd charge given.
"Dragging river West" — the verdict’s pain,
Decade lost to lies and chains.

Killing the nation’s brightest flame,
Feeding masses with endless shame.
Today’s no different — **** still reign,
For centuries, war with brain.

They’ve not changed, these ruthless fiends,
In shadows cast, they pull the strings.
Against the Mind — eternal fight,
Dark puppeteers rule the night.




---------------------



Executioners of the Mind

Kozyrev, ’37 — accused, destroyed,
For “stealing Volga,” crime absurd.
Today — total control,
Muzzles on the masses, stifled souls.

Streams of lies — poison’s flood,
A cowardly world enslaved by fear.
Pandemic — shadow play,
Truth is gone, only lies appear.

Executioners of mind in white coats,
Propaganda shoved into every home.
Fakes, tests, forced submission —
Virus of lies that breaks the dome.

All sciences sold for cash,
Humanity — a herd of dogs.
Viruses of genes and ideas,
Flashes of doom for all of us.

In schools they break young souls,
Genetics under the blade of lies.
They dull the core, they mute the mind —
To run powerless into the blind.

Executioners of new age do not hush,
From top to bottom — ruthless press.
Genocide of thought — a quiet scream,
Endless loop of lies and progress.

Satan in technocrat’s disguise,
Preaching “new order” in the lies.
But rebel spirit tears the chains,
Soon it will burst all their lies.

All the false plays of power break,
Cutting freedom’s shining light.
And mind’s executioners will fall,
When dawn will finally strike the night.



---------------------


The Razor Truth-Bearer

He found the blade inside the vial,
Graphene shards like razor’s smile,
Slicing veins, unseen, concealed—
The silent war the liars wield.

Spoke aloud what none could face,
Exposed the poison in their race.
Too sharp the truth, too cold the light—
They silenced him in darkest night.

No justice served, just whispered threats,
The shadow pulls, the terror nets.
A martyr lost to greed’s domain,
Where science bleeds, and lies remain.

His name erased, but not the pain,
The struggle burns, defies the chain.
In silence now his voice resounds—
A blade that cuts through all their rounds.



---------------------


Veterinary *****

We wear our muzzles tight,
And pump that toxic ****.
Who dares to stand and fight —
Their fate is sealed, they quit.

We jab them down by force,
To save our precious skin.
No need for will or course —
Freedom? We’d just sink in.

We only want the doc,
And cops to keep us tame.
Our genius? “Procter”’s stock —
We’ll raise his ****** name.

A monument we’ll build
For pushing all that junk.
Life’s simple, hearts fulfilled —
A paradise, no bunk.

We’re all just imbeciles,
A fool leads with a grin.
We stockpile health and pills,
Don’t poke us, don’t begin.

Dissent? Just sit and shut,
Don’t stink or stir the mess.
With needles, we construct
Our “heaven” in distress.

And all who disagree —
We’ll **** them off real soon.
Then life will be carefree —
Beneath this blood-red moon.



---------------------



Veterinary *****

We drag our muzzles tight,
Inject their poison’s spite.
Oppose? You’re wrong, you’re dead—
Your fight is burned and shred.

We force the toxic jab,
“Saving” us with their stab.
Forget your rights, don’t speak,
Freedom’s just for the weak.

Only cops and docs,
Run this sick, twisted show.
“Procter” leads the flocks,
A monument of woe.

Praise the poison pusher,
Who feeds us all this filth.
Life’s ****, but get used to it—
Welcome to their hellish quilt.

We’re dumbed down, led blind,
A fool’s the one in charge.
Stockpiling health confined—
Don’t poke the barbed barge.

Dissenters? Shut your trap,
Or drown in their disease.
Needles build their trap,
Our “heaven” on its knees.

All rebels will be crushed,
Their voices torn and stilled.
Then we’ll live dead and hushed—
By tyrants’ iron will.



---------------------


“The Cure”

Not to heal — just “treat” nonstop,
No breaks, no mercy, no escape.
“Can’t live without it,” lies nonstop —
The doctor’s game’s a ruthless scrape.

He “treats” the fools who buy the schemes,
While rot spreads thick and silence reigns.
Fear shackles voices, kills their dreams,
A world trapped tight in shadowed chains.

Now doctor’s gone veterinary,
Dogs get papers, stamped and sealed.
Better than the old prisons —
A sanitary hell revealed.

They hook up chips to fools’ veins,
Inject their nano-mind control.
Reason killed, stripped of all brains,
Souls flayed raw, a crushing toll.

Dr. Mengele’s back in play,
Running this grim, twisted show.
Time has come — the **** must pay,
And in the fire, all must go.



---------------------



“The Cure”

Not to heal — just jab and shove,
Endless lies they shove down throats.
“Without this shot you’ll never love!”
The doctor’s grip’s a steel-clad moat.

He treats the fools who swallow lies,
While rot devours the silent throng.
Fear locks jaws and blinds the eyes,
The weak bow down — the herd goes wrong.

Now dogs get papers, marked for death,
No difference from camps of old.
Nano-chips invade the breath,
Mind enslaved, the soul sold cold.

Mengele’s ghost commands the scene,
Torture masked as “care” and “heal.”
Time to purge this filthy spleen —
**** the vermin, break the seal.




---------------------



“The Cure”

Not to cure — just shove that ******* needle,
Endless ******* fed like ******* gospel.
“No shot? Then die, you’re ******* feeble!”
Doc’s a *******, locked in iron castle.

He feeds the dumb who swallow lies,
While **** corrodes the silent mass.
Fear clamps jaws, blinds every eye,
Weak ***** kneel — herd’s dead in the grass.

Now dogs get papers, tagged to die,
No better than those old-*** camps.
Nano-chips crawl in your veins, don’t lie —
Mind and soul ripped, dumped in the scamps.

Mengele’s spawn runs this sick show,
Torture dressed as care and cure.
Time to burn this ******* low,
**** the vermin — make it pure.



---------------------



Executioners of the Mind — The System’s Design

We haul the Volga westward, chained,
Ten years sentenced — no shame retained.
A nation’s blood to poison deep,
To feed the herd the lies they keep.

Still now, as then, the **** parade,
Their war on reason, centuries made.
Not rogue mistakes — a system’s hand,
A hellish web across the land.

They choke the truth, enslave the brain,
Propaganda’s cruel domain.
False science weaponized to ****,
The System grinds, unyielding still.

The rulers wear their masks of lies,
To crush the light that dares to rise.
No flaws, no glitches in this game —
A perfect, ruthless, grinding flame.

The puppeteers pull every string,
To trap us in their deathly ring.
They sell us chains, disguised as keys,
And feed us poison with disease.

So scream, revolt — the time has come,
To tear apart this web of ****.
Not errors, no — the System’s art,
A ****** dance to break the heart.




---------------------



Executioners of the Mind — The System’s Shitshow

We drag the Volga west, no *****,
Ten years locked down, the system *****.
They slaughter nations, feed the herd,
With ******* lies and twisted words.

Same filthy *******, same old game,
Waging war on reason’s flame.
No fuckups here — it’s all by plan,
This ******-up system rules the land.

They choke the truth, enslave the brain,
Propaganda’s ******* reign.
Fake science used to **** us all,
The system grinds — a ruthless thrall.

The ruling **** wear masks of lies,
To crush the light that dares to rise.
No bugs, no flaws, just cold command,
A ******* death-machine’s demand.

Puppeteers pull every string,
Lock us in their hellish ring.
They sell us chains as shiny keys,
And poison deep in disease.

So scream and fight — the time is now,
To rip this shitshow down somehow.
Not mistakes, no ******’ art —
The system’s blood-stained broken heart.



---------------------


Executioners of the Mind

Drag the Volga west — ten years in chains,
Nation slaughtered slow — blood on the trains.
******* liars spin their twisted games,
Feeding masses ******* — spreading flames.

Same old ****, the cancer’s deep,
Waging war on thought while we all sleep.
No fuckups here — it’s all designed,
A hellish system, cold, unkind.

Truth choked tight, lies fed nonstop,
Science murdered, bodies drop.
Masks of lies, fake smiles, fake law,
******* puppets, claws in the jaw.

This world’s a cage, they hold the key,
Poisoned needles, tyranny.
Chains sold cheap, freedom’s a joke,
Truth burned down, silence spoke.

So scream and rage — it’s do or die,
Rip the mask, expose the lie.
Not ******’ glitches, it’s the plan —
System’s heart’s a bleeding man.



---------------------


Executioners of the Mind (Expanded)

Drag the Volga west — ten years in chains,
Nation slaughtered slow — blood on the trains.
******* liars spin their twisted games,
Feeding masses ******* — spreading flames.

Same old ****, the cancer’s deep,
Waging war on thought while we all sleep.
No fuckups here — it’s all designed,
A hellish system, cold, unkind.

Truth choked tight, lies fed nonstop,
Science murdered, bodies drop.
Masks of lies, fake smiles, fake law,
******* puppets, claws in the jaw.

This world’s a cage, they hold the key,
Poisoned needles, tyranny.
Chains sold cheap, freedom’s a joke,
Truth burned down, silence spoke.

Systems grind like rusted gears,
Feeding fears, confirming tears.
Not a glitch — a brutal plan,
Crushing souls, breaking man.

Executioners wear suits and ties,
Smiling snakes with venom eyes.
No random fail, no accident,
Just cold machine — the mind’s torment.

Truth’s a threat, so cut it loose,
Feed the herd the ******* juice.
System’s core: control and ****,
Bleeding minds beneath the drill.

So rage, revolt, or drown in shame,
This dance of death, this twisted game.
But know it’s not just rotten luck —
It’s systemic ****, the poison pluck.



---------------------


Executioners of the Mind (System’s True Face)

Drag the Volga west — ten years in chains,
Nation slaughtered slow — blood on the trains.
******* liars spin their twisted games,
Feeding masses ******* — spreading flames.

Same old ****, the cancer’s deep,
Waging war on thought while we all sleep.
No fuckups here — it’s all designed,
A hellish system, cold, unkind.

Truth choked tight, lies fed nonstop,
Science murdered, bodies drop.
Masks of lies, fake smiles, fake law,
******* puppets, claws in the jaw.

This world’s a cage, they hold the key,
Poisoned needles, tyranny.
Chains sold cheap, freedom’s a joke,
Truth burned down, silence spoke.

Graphene blades in fake “vaccines,”
Blood runs thin, torn by machines.
Whistleblowers killed and erased,
Their warnings lost in the lies they’ve traced.

A modern Mengele’s carnival,
Playing god, the final fall.
Nano-chips and death in vials,
Mass control through toxic trials.

Systems grind like rusted gears,
Feeding fears, confirming tears.
Not a glitch — a brutal plan,
Crushing souls, breaking man.

Executioners wear suits and ties,
Smiling snakes with venom eyes.
No random fail, no accident,
Just cold machine — the mind’s torment.

Truth’s a threat, so cut it loose,
Feed the herd the ******* juice.
System’s core: control and ****,
Bleeding minds beneath the drill.

So rage, revolt, or drown in shame,
This dance of death, this twisted game.
But know it’s not just rotten luck —
It’s systemic ****, the poison pluck.



---------------------



Intuition of True Knowing

A sensitive sail tenses — the ear,
And stupid mind derails so clear:
True knowing’s purely INTUITIVE.
Strict logic? Nature finds it repulsive.

Complex webs beyond the brain,
Amid the clouds of foul disdain —
“Education,” propaganda lies,
Controlled by vile gang’s disguise.

THE FILTH that rules this world with greed,
Feeds on sameness, scheming creed.
Go only INWARD — thirst for soul,
Not quenched by popes or scholars’ role,

The ****** who serve the creeping beasts,
The crafty liars — market priests.
Forgeries and fakes they spread,
To **** the Pure Mind’s thread.



---------------------



The ShitIceberg


A goat in gold commands the pit —
While talking heads just scream and spit.
You call this life? It's death disguised.
Wake up — or rot, lobotomized.
Intro

Your voice always gets to me through
the convincing brutal honesty in verbal abuse.
From the moment I first heard you, I knew
I could never win with you,
but I didn't wanna lose,
'cause you made me high too.
I know it's not an excuse, but I choose
to stay confused and just refuse
to let it go and say goodbye to you.
What if I'll feel so empty without you?
Without the feeling I'm in now,
'cause I love being in it.
I swear, I mean it.
And I guess there's nothing wrong with having a little crush on you
just for a minute.
It's okay, but hey,
I'm not trying to justify a guy with a short fuse
and mean demeanor.
I mean, I know it can be meaner.
No matter how amused by you,
I kind of feel like I'm used.
Not that I accuse you, just warn you
that it's a bad habit you'd better not get used to.
Though, you're still my muse.
I wish I were your muse too
so that I could listen to your new song like I used to,
'cause it's exhausting,
but I can't help listening to your awesome anguishing agony,
your music you use to let loose,
release exhaust fumes,
your evergreen, everlasting spring in solitary torturing you.
Much as I wouldn't dare fit in your shoes,
I'd like to rap with you, but I live in ludicrous blues.


Pipe dream

Of course, you don't know me as a person.
By the way, it's also vice versa,
I don't know you either.
It's not like I wrote a lot of verses.
But I wish this one could make us closer.
It's a pity you'll never read it.
But if you did, it would mean the world to me.
It would be an event of the scale of the second advent,
'cause you are closed for me like a celestial deity.
I can always find time for you,
but you never have it for me.
It breaks my heart that it's just a pipe dream.
Still, I gotta try to make it come true.
I will keep writing to believe that I can get through to you.
I'm aware of how much time it may take.
But as long as magic is real, my feelings aren't fake.
I don't care what your name is and where you are from
or how much money you've got in your bank account.
It only matters how you perform.
After all, you've won an Oscar,
not for being a good actor, though.
But you did play your *** off
staying true to yourself, showed the world
your cold white cocky cheeky ***,
and opened up your incandescent soul
as if it's a bold, wide-open, giant *******,
inflicting your **** upon the world,
being a sassy drama-queen pain in the ***,
'cause you're an *******.
That may make me look like I'm your worst fan.
But I really didn't wanna hurt your feelings at all.
Well, I guess, of all people,
you should appreciate a rapturously sarcastic joy.
Don't take offense, I'm only kidding,
just playing with you, my favorite toy.
For what it's worth,
you are the best superhuman Rapboy
on Earth.
With this, you've been blessed and cursed since birth.
If it isn't love, I don't know what it is.
Except it might be some kind of addiction or a contagious disease.
And as every disease, it will increase,
then finally cease and release.
Or maybe not, then I will tragically die
and, hopefully, find my peace with ease.
Compared to tormenting life,
it must be a piece of cake,
easy as pie just to decease.
Anyway, you probably shouldn't even read this,
I have to admit.
Indeed, why would you read it,
when you got your own ****?
You know, I didn't want to post this verse at first.
Then I thought it's worth a shot.
What the hell? Let's see how it goes,
pens out, and grows.
Let's see how the magic works.


Illusion

I actually see that
we share the same illusion of
mutual love.
Sometimes it seems, though,
I'm a bit delusional
and stuck in appealing bluff
with my life, cut in half.
As I am torn in two between me and you,
getting the wrong impression
and making the false conclusion
of falling for you like a fool,
eager to lose myself in this confusion
and overwhelming passion,
in an instant, turning into the irrational obsession of a buff
that's stunningly never enough,
'cause it makes me feel special,
a rough fuse on the expression
of the eternal hunger for love.
Life is worthless without this feeling.
Isn't that how it's supposed to be?
I just gotta keep believing
that it's not destroying me.
I'd been living in denial for a long time, though,
lying to myself that you were not bad, not good either,
just gradually growing on me, fantasizing,
pretending that you could be my friend,
feigning that I wasn't your fan.
Unfortunately I am.
And I don’t understand it, hate to admit
that it's a nasty, hot pleasure and pain to be your stan.
But I can't stand the idea that I can't leave ya,
no matter how hard I try.
I'd love to have faith in your words,
believe the irresistible sweet lie,
the convincing feeling
that you are extremely appealing,
the attractive illusion I want to believe in.
I think I'll forgive you,
even if you hurt me, make me cry.
And I don't know why
I have to live with this wound in my heart till the day I die.
Maybe, it's because this wild fire,
being born in me, burns in me,
burning me while I'm still alive.
So you see it's bad for mental health
to tell people, especially ****** poetry junkies everything about yourself.
I'm the victim of your art,
like in a way you are of mine.
You just don't know it yet,
being trapped by the sense of mind
in the cage of space and time.


Addictive obsession

I keep coming back to your addictive personality,
'cause it's a part of me,
my personal reality
in the childish,
stupidly struggling with my own aggression mentality
that pulls me in like gravity
of the synergetic, badly needed duality.
You are my dark shade,
angry and always hungry twin
in a distorting mirror,
a meaner reflection in me.
And you complete me and keep me on track,
even though it leads to a brain wreck,
violent calamity,
causing a permanent damage
due to the lack of virtuous verbal morality,
offensive obscene insanity
that almost makes you a possessive fiend,
***** devil, pure evil, the enemy of the humanity,
having fun, making fun of everybody,
making fans of them, including me.
******* my brains, instead of making love,
******* with this ****** up reality,
from which you tried to get distracted
through getting addicted to drugs, though.
You would substitute your depression
with substance abuse and excessive passion,
embracing your obsession
and balancing in the range of rage and compassion.
That, I have enough empathy to understand
for one reason.
And I'm not proud of it,
but I have to admit
that, sadly, I kinda do the same.
Shame on me.
Then again, I don't wanna complain,
but I find myself in your pain,
drowned in the inane feeling I can't explain,
running away from this stupid game
to feel not so lame and remain sane,  
trying to commit to the promises I've made to myself in vain
about resolving the main issue of staying in the same habitual refrain,
even if I have to abstain from your demonic music with diabolical lyrics
or at least change my name,
claiming to have found a new aim to regain my dignity.
It’s supposed to make me feel better, but it ain’t.
I hope I'm on my way to break free from shame and blame,
the flame of emotional lability,
still restrained,
being mesmerized by the vicious samsara circle of infinity,
this magnificent ouroboros
of the endless sense of gain or loss,
stored in countless stories about yesterdays and tomorrows,
in the illusory plot, written carefully for us,
in neverending, invisible time that everyone borrows.
Now, I don't mind being a fan of someone who's already dead.
But of someone who's still alive?
That's just sick, living legend.
Don't you think?
See, I start realizing
that I’m a sinner, ‘cause I idolize you.
How did I end up in your satanic cult without invitation?
Boy, do I look yet like I need to be exorcized
or the exercise of intervention.
As if I'm possessed by the supernatural force of obsession
that wants to be expressed with an excessive passion.
You know what I mean.
Your bible is a dictionary.
It kinda looks like another addiction to me.
And once you felt it,
you just can't help it,
'cause you're an addict,
master of intellectual lust,
brain ******* graphomaniac,
skilled to cerebrally *******
till reaching an intellectual ******.
You’re trained to write till the pain in your brain.
I do get that too, yes.
But I'd rather have *** till the pain in my ***.
When you are really happy,
you don't need any words to heal.
Misery begets more misery.
But how come your pain brings speechless love that I feel?
It's a **** mystery.
Do you wanna be loved now or remembered forever?
You bully yourself to stay hungry.
Man, I think about you 24/7,
spitting rhymes
to feed my libido, be in love,
stay inspired 100%, and
believe that I can live now and survive later,
as I'm overinspired by my love for you.
I'm not sure if I want to be always this honest.
Do you want me to?
Would you take a leap of faith in my truth
rather than inspire hope?
I ******* doubt it.
You did your best to get into my head,
my jam-tomorrow dope.
Now you can't get out and
act like you don't give a **** about it.
You made me fall in love with you,
popped up in my heart out of the blue.
Satanically evil devil.
Diabolically saint Satan.
I'm high on you, feel like I am in heaven,
like I've never felt better,
not in this life, I haven't.
Though, a massive crash of the system is the side effect
of a major crush on you.
How the hell did that happen?
I wish it were just a squish.
That's how it must feel to be the victim of a marketing ploy,
advertisement subterfuge.
But the toll we all have to pay
as consumers, sometimes seems to be too huge.
The neurons, connected with you, in my head are so ******* fat.
I can't get rid of them just like that,
‘cause I lost my heart to you
‘n’ am wasted on yo’ bars.
You are amazing, dude.
I’m so, so crazy about you.
My universe is you.
Well, *******! Now, what am I supposed to do?


The impossible

You can't force a person to see the world through your eyes,
nor is it possible to explain or describe
a three-dimensional feeling by means of words
unless your listener is familiar with it, of course.
But it sounds as if you are killing
it like a boss,
making a mess of thoughts
I can relate to, 'cause
mine are similar, but yours are worse,
spectacular, but also ghastly, disgusting, crass, and gross.
Like grass, your **** grows and attracts flies and crows.
Nice choice of words,
looks like a can of worms,
bananas verbose neurosis,
but also awesome and so virtuoso.
And those bozos
who don't get it can **** your *****
and buzz off, morons.
Right? Just drop dead and permanently get lost.
I guess with this, you're blessed and cursed,
cursed to make crosswords out of curse words,
cursed to swear, spitting rhyming slurs,
hurting others feelings with your screaming poetry,
hidden in your diabolically crazy schemes,
arising from infuriating poverty,
just ‘cause that's how real this **** feels.
Well, duh. It hurts.
I didn't realize it at first.
Now I admire that you don't get tired
of trying to describe it,
Although inspiring,
it can be hard and unfulfilling,
but you're a fighter.
Rap god, living in us, you are one of us,
hiding under the hood, behind the bars.
It looks like we're on the same page.
I'm full of fierce rage, you're on the rampage.
You use your finesse to impress
for the sake of success.
Chasing perfection, neither can I finish writing this verse,
nor return the gift and close Pandora's box,
a perplexing, puzzling paradox.
I gave up. I can't stop
I'm in deep funky ****,
literally drowning in it,
taken, smitten. I'm ******
and ****** up.
It seems to be as long as my life
with no dead ends and a deadline in the end of life,
a fantastic dream within a dream I'm in,
the life into which my soul comes like into making love
to die after ****** with an eternally grateful smile,
as if I'm sentenced to doing my time
writing sentences and lines in rhyme for life.
I don't wanna do anything else.
Do I have to? Who cares?
The limit is the sky.
Why do I pursue unreachable perfection? I don't know.
Why were we born?
Why do we live?
Why do we die?
Oh my, am I too high?
If not, am I creating a masterpiece or slowly losing my mind?
Am I like the butterfly that flies too close to the fire?
Why is it writing itself? What is this?
What the **** is this?
Can anyone explain it to me, please?
The prose of life with an empty purse
and pockets isn't my purpose.
Why the **** does it seem then
that the process of writing this verse is?
I'm inspired by everything at this point.
Like seriously, I hear a word,
and bam! My head is about to explode.
Oh, no! Try to calm down, meditate. Doesn't work.
Should I meditate a bit more?
Yeah, sure. Why not?
Uh-oh, here we go again.
And I start to elaborate on the word that I've heard before,
turning it into the flow of rhyming thoughts,
writing several verses at once
in different tongues,
both not quite civil, though.
I feel like I'm a walking poetry,
even better, a living controversy,
or an unstoppable stupid-genius oxymoron.
See, it sounds as if I was kidnapped,
taken roughly, though subliminally
without preliminary tenderness or warnings,
like a precious princess
with a one-million-dollars-price silicone ***,
by some kind of madness,
possessed by the destiny of a goddess and a demoness,
since I didn't start this emotional dance of the sense
from the cognitive mess
of the chaotic subconsciousness,
I think I can control more or less,
on purpose.
It was a coincidence.
I call it destiny.
Well, then let it be.
You get the gist?
Please, don't resist the culmination of my made-up friendship,
I insist.
Sorry, I don't know why, but I just need this.
We are together in this sensation
that stubbornly persists to exist.
Accept the respect of a crazy fan and a frenzy friend at least,
the affection of a hungry hunter, my beautiful beast.


Daydream

It's time to overcome my fear of you to disappear.
Your music flows already in my blood,
like a virus or a drug.
The ***** voice I hear,
your witty tongue, caressing, kissing, penetrating my ear,
touches my heart.
The devouring power
grabs my soul and drags it to the black hole of art,
the void of desire
that unavoidably draws a butterfly to the fire.
What a cruel life satire!
It's so **** beautiful
and looks as though
I'm literally about to see god,
even though I know I'm not.
I'm not that dumb,
just dumb enough
to think I am too smart for that.
I hope I won't lose my religion and not starting to write a new bible,
'cause what you sing and write,
it feels so right,
an enlightening bright ray of light at night
in your every single new album.
But it sounds like you pay for this with your excruciating pain.
It comes to my head, screws my brain,
turns me on, and again,
rapes my mind.
You play me like a guitar.
In other words, I might say,
I love the way you sound,
like a little, fascinating, too loud bird
in love, inspired in spring in the forest,
with a mellifluous voice,
who repeats again and again the same chorus
after a snappy verse with melodramatic words
and sings for the moment
of love that lasts as long as the bird’s song flows.
God, would I give it all to you,
if I were this kind of bird too.
Though the bird also yells a lot, spits, swears, *****, and mocks.
******* mockingbirds! They are the worst.
While I seem to express a meaningful feeling.
I mean, for some reason, it's very fulfilling
like a beautiful windy dance of a sense
and an emotion in energy motion.
Still got a lot to stay severe about? So what?
You are now here with me, my funny, blue, serene forget-me-not.
With you, I feel no fear.
It sounds surreal, so weird, yet so astoundingly sincere.
Though in no way do I wanna impede, hinder, or interfere.
I'm here, near you, I'm yours
in my daydream that feels so real,
so clear, so dear, so close.
Close the door, turn off your mind.
I will be soft and kind.
I give you my word.
Take off your clothes,
your flesh and bones,
expose your whole soul,
lose yourself in my world.
I can't fake it
when I see you in the buff,
when you are vulnerable and naked,
it makes me feel that I'm in love.
The ice, baby, break it.
Find yourself in the sea of my eyes, take it.
Here me out, acknowledge me, my god.
I want to be your peer without a doubt
or any intermediaries except one love,
that's free from a logical dualism between us.
I'm also standing on the stage, although behind the scenes,
and persevering in
expressing myself in this verse.
Can I impress you like you impress me? Just curious,
reluctant to confess to a tempting attempt to sin.
I think it's innocent but serious,
the best delirious experience
I've ever felt with you within,
inside my mind, under my skin,
between reality and a 3D dramatic dream.
I mean you and me in
my strong magnetic parallel Universe.
Or is it just a wrong, too long, pretentious pseudo-song that makes me furious?
Being an amazing, captivating puzzle
and attractive word construction,
it can bewilder and bedazzle,
bamboozle, distract from the world destruction
which is pretty scary,
like a bad dream,
a realistic nightmare, worth hiding from in a daydream.
So I cling to this verse not to forget it
so that I don't have to feel sorry for myself later and ******* regret it.
Follow the white rabbit.
Do you get it?
Neo, take the right pill.
Be the creator of your own reality inside the matrix,
because you know that in the other reality is the other you.
Switch your attitude,
shift your mood.
Paradoxically as it may sound,
to stay adequate in this reality,
you gotta get higher,
go beyond its boundaries,
see it from outside for a while,
reach for the opposite extreme
and feel grateful for the opportunity
to increase the potential for further growth
and follow your dream.
Lose your mind for some time,
as if you are madly in love,
eager to give yourself to this feeling completely.
It's also fine to be in a surprised state of mind,
like when through humor or inappropriate ******,
you are freed, shocked, flashed, or mooned by someone just for fun.
Overcome the fear of leaving your comfort zone.
Lose yourself, but not for too long and too far
lest you get used to the new way of existence.
Keep the balanced distance
so that you could come back
before you forget how to be found.
You're allowed to do crazy things in your dreams as opposed to reality,
'cause you're basically unconscious,
I suppose, to get the full access to the freedom of will for your avatar,
when you are free from the system of rationality
and don't even notice being surrounded by nonsense.
When I OD on my dream, it engulfs me
and I become its slave.
But I can't bear the unbearable spirituality,
the thrill, filling my brain,
blowing my mind,
bearing me out of reality.
Just so you know, well, you know,
it has the power to burn, devour, and wipe you off the face of the Earth.
The mechanics is quite obvious.
When you overdose, the system registers errors
and the crash of your overwhelmed brain that can't keep pace with your thoughts.
It activates the programs of negative hormones to make you feel bad
so that you know that your good doesn't work.
So when you feel too good, it's bad,
'cause having fell over the brink,
you may think you're still on board.
Yet you find the opposite extreme
of life, which is the state of affect, in fact.
And you're toast. That's all.
Man, you can talk about this state of consciousness,
being in another one, as much as you want
But all your words will stop making any sense,
as soon as you return to the first one.
This dope makes you, dupe, say "smart" stuff.
But every time, you, wise guy, somehow turn out to be Captain Obvious
with a perpetual motion machine, unstoppable engine in his ***.
And you present the obvious as the truth,
simply ingenious for you.
Yeah, sometimes I come up with smart things.
Well, they are not that smart, to be honest.
Also, being too smart in a stupid place can be pretty lonely.
So I find the right words to feel comfortable in this inhospitable world,
apparently ruled by idiocracy,
pluck them right out of my dreams so I can grow
out of mundane mediocrity.
When you treat reality as a dream, though,
who enjoys all the freedom?
And what if he wakes up?
Will he remember it to read it?
Like he'd ever have any sentiments
for this epic monument to his character and his feeling.
Reality is relative, conditional.
It’s real only on condition that you take it seriously.
As any alternative reality proves that this one isn’t real.
Does it set you free?
There are many realities. Love is one.
Don’t forget to have fun.


Baby steps

It's full of deceptively smart, discombobulating, bombastic aphorisms, idiotic idioms,
Sancho Panza's *** wisdom, mind-puzzling tongue twisters, corny metaphors,
oversatiated with the false force
of never satisfying rhyming words anyway.
I'll eventually throw it away someday.
But not now, no. I won't leave it alone.
I'm not ready to let it go.
Although I know I am being greedy,
and I agree, duh, I do need it,
I am still thrilled to read it.
I don't want to part with it,
as if it is a part of me, and I'm a part of it.
This rough raw draft is like a crass lump of sugar,
being imminently washed away by water in raccoon's paws
or a precious stone I enjoy watching.
But looking closer, one may notice
it's just a useless piece of coarse glass,
dirt, scooped up from the bottom of my soul.
I literally litter literarily,
drastically sarcastically spiritually,
a poet, obsessed with my own poem,
sick freak, losing my mind for a moment,
overachieving geek, falling in love for the first time
from the first sight with the first lines.
It could be called poetic, if not intimidating.
It's unforgivable. Can I forget it?
Maybe, not to be too crude straight away,
I should consider baby steps and gently start the process,
at least, with words first, let's say…
"Will you kindly ***** up your courage and hold it together?
What is the matter with you?
Are you insane?
******* ******,
it's not funny, nor is it funky.
Bite the bullet.
Stop it, stupid. Wake up,
star-struck dumb ****.
Get real, naive dreamer.
Just lose it, change the ******* music,
deluded miserable loser!
It's hard to grow up. So what?
**** it up.
Face it, ******* ****.
Cope with it, stupid ****.
Just so you know, this mediocre ******* doesn't mean anything to me.
I don't give a ****, *****.
Toss it to the garbage.
To my mind, it's so disturbing, makes me cringe.
Stop wasting your time, acting like a system's glitch.
I'm putting my foot down, lousy clown,
******* ****** ***** *****.
Let it go or get lost in your god
and leave me alone."
"Well, if you say so…
On second thought, no, I won't.
Respectfully, I disagree.
You want a piece of me?
I have a piece of advice for you too.
How about you shut up and eat me.
Now I suppose I got beef with you.
Is that what you want? *****, please.
What is the matter with ME?
Are you for real?
So much for the champion of morality.
What's the big deal?
And who the **** are you to judge me?
What the hell is wrong with YOU?
What are you ******* about?
Why do you care for preaching,
when you don't even like to teach?
Must be some kind of breach, though.
If you feel so estranged from me,
why don't you build a bridge and get over it?
In any case, I don't need a teacher.
I'll learn on my own.
Should you still gonna teach me,
trying to beat me with the heavy artillery of a tough rhyme,
can I have this class on advanced rap really fast?
'Cause I don't wanna lose my time.
Otherwise, if I do, I'll make you go through some tough times,
'cause this time you'll have to deal with MY really rough rhymes.
And if you absolutely need to know,
I’m not insane. I’m in love.
Yeah, I know you think it's the same, but it's not.
So knock it off, *****, enough.
Shut your stupid big mouth and *******.
***** you, tactless, unthankful, insensitive fool.
Oh, yeah, sure. Now you're so mature.
Cut me some slack, judgmental prima donna.
Without me, you'll be lonely.
Just so you know,
I'd be cool without your concern, yeah,
and your pathetic rebuke.
I make you cringe?
You make me puke,
'cause you're getting my goat now.
And in my humble opinion, **** your opinion.
It's not even critical.
You're just being mean,
too subjective, basic, and hypocritical.
So take it back, or you'll regret,
'cause I'd be glad to shove it into your throat
to finally shut your ******* piehole.
On the other hand, thank you for your opinion.
I'll take it along with my own
and gracefully balance between them.
FYI, you can only pry this verse out of the dead grip of my corpse, dumb *****.
Bite me and thanks a bunch,
******* very much for your ******* questionable,
supposedly encouraging, rather enraging,
arguable, so-called "motivational"speech.
Go to hell and **** yourself,
get lost before you bite the dust,
gut-wrenching leech.
I'll make you put your ******* foot
in your filthy mouth
and won't let you take it out,
hold it till you swallow your own *****.
How does that sound?
I'm through with people telling me what to do.
So go take a flying **** at a rolling donut.
I'm standing my ground.
If after all this, you still think that you won,
you must be a ******, believe it or not.
Well, you may believe whatever you want.
Let me be honest with you.
I'd like to enlighten you too.
I don't even need to prove you wrong,
‘cause that's what you probably already know on your own,
though only subliminally,
since you are the one
who still wants to say something to me.
To my mind, you are out of your mind,
'cause it's not only yours, it's also mine.
If you don't see me any longer,
so long then.
In my god, I'm dissolving."
Ok, that's it. I'd better be over with this ironic moronic controversial converse.
I'm done talking to me and myself,
don't know how else it's supposed to be said.
All I know is it's not supposed to be sad.
It's supposed to be fun.


Fake poet

So **** being normal.
I, too, want to get through the time portal to become immortal alright.
Though, be careful what you wish for, right?
I don't like to hurt people's feelings,
but I'm tired of casting pearls before swine.
It's venial for an artist to love his ego because he loves his art,
created by his personality which he also sees as a work of art, while
an author has to love his character so that the character should be alive.
That's why you create your alter ego as your best friend in your own image.
And since the observer can't be observed,
like the feeling, owning you, can't be analyzed,
this way through co-creation, you talk with God.
****, that's ******* high Sci-Fi.)
Well, all artists are ****** up.
So welcome to the club,
home for talented human beings
with the divine energy inside
so you could imagine that you could see yourself from afar.
Yeah, I probably need a shrink, but I can't afford it.
And you know what? I think I actually don't even want it.
I'd like to be among contented people,
people, interested in me,
loving me for who I am,
not for who they want me to be.
There are, however, no normal people on this planet,
'cause no one can be objective, being enthralled,
lost in an enslaving illusion, and this is normal, but at the cost
of critical thinking, common sense logic, of course.
So there's no use of judging anyone
except for yourself, to whom you always have so much to say.
OK, I'll hold on to it for a while, let it stay
till this bunch of stupid words still makes my day, makes me smile,
also excited and even ecstatic,
because I'm probably an immature amateur and a frantic fanatic
quickly crossing the line without brakes,
'cause something's wrong with my brains,
overwhelmed with feelings spilling into words,
losing sight of the point of no return
or only pretending to be frenetic to look more charismatic,
merely playing the leading role of my own show,
at the same time, enjoying it, sitting in the front row,
covering the existential horror
of being engulfed by a disappearing feeling
with trash in my mind, waste of my soul,
hiding from problems, irreversible losses,
remorse, and sorrow behind my poems,
'cause, to be honest, it's frighteningly a lot to swallow.
At least, I have the strength to admit that I'm weak.
You, too, know it.
I may be a failed philosopher, artist depicting himself, if you will,
a fake, dead poet,
who, gazing in jaw-dropping amazement at the scary beauty
from the mysterious extraterrestrial tree of poetry
through spiritual ******'s eyes,
meditatively observes peacefully gliding swallows
and whizzing, gleefully squealing like little monkeys, weightless swifts,
deflecting thoughts from the constant, ruthless struggle for survival,
striving for life, fight for the right to exist.
I always notice these little joyous moments I can't let go of,
charming moments of bliss.
I try to capture them in persuasive, virtual words,
a recursive parody of fractals, shiny kaleidoscopic gems
of shattered glass, alas, to no avail,
catch the evasive, lucidly illusive, evanescent sense,
hidden behind the veil
or resurrect the piercing, genuine, ephemeral feeling,
recreate it as if I can remember it, while it always keeps saying farewell,
leaving me confusing cause with consequence,
perplexing reflexing, which coincidentally helped once survive
and became a perpetual part of a limited by it, endlessly enigmatic life.
It can make you stronger, traumatize you as well,
'cause it's as fast as pulling a trigger to exchange paradise for hell.
When I was a kid, I used to collect beautiful feathers,
dreaming of building wings to fly to the star by the name of Sun one day.
Growing up, I'm collecting enchanting words
in the hope that I'll find the way to create a magical spell,
as if I'm afraid to lose the key from the lock on the door,
behind which there's the whole new world
I’ve never seen before.


Love free ****** humor

Yeah, no ****, you don't say! I can tell.
I seem to be so wise sometimes.
Being kinda kind, I am not wise or nice,
but when people see it in my eyes,
I don't mind also being polite
and lie, as I simply like to look likewise,
hiding my passion inside.
Lie, thinking I'm telling the truth,
lie to myself and to you.
I know I'm not the brightest star in the night sky.
Ah, come on, don't try to prove me wrong.
Don't be stupid, I'm not that smart.
I'm even not too smart to be a ****,
because I'm
a kindhearted person,
although a bit bothersome.
Well, how you like that?
Not bad for a horrendously cynical humorist.
At least I'm an honest hedonist
prone to fall in love with egoists,
being selfish myself.
It's so simple and obvious that it's ingenious.
Besides, there's nothing new under the sun, dude.
Only the way to express yourself, subdued by a convincing fleeting feeling,
trying to shoot for the moon, I assume. Feel it.
It's not an invention,
just a euphoric wide-eyed eureka sensation,
out of zero and one, pile of combinations
of notional and semantic hallucinations
in the infinite number of unique situations,
miracle-like lyrical elevation,
limitational imitation,
metaphorical *******,
sensational manipulation,
emotional liberation,
manifestational motivation,
pang of inspiration,
another recollection in your consciousness,
the figment of god's imagination,
spiritual *******,
Captain Obvious.
Nice choice of words,
looks like a can of worms.
Just a verbose neurosis, of course.
If not, I need a doctor for the right diagnosis, I suppose.
Don't stay in my head for too long.
I'm afraid you'll be drained,
'cause my graphomaniacal brain is insane.
Oh well, what the hell, yours is the same,
so I guess this is how a wordy-nerdy neurotic
makes love to his narcotic.
It's so poetically ******.
I muss my thoughts, like a neurotic tousles hair.
By the way, that would be me as well.
There, I admit I write, I'm a freak,
and I don't care.
Be careful and gentle with me, though,
as I can be too free and open-minded.
Mind it.
Yeah, I'm a ***** funky ******,
sympathizing with a sly Mona Lisa's condescending smile at first,
bursting into sinister Homeric laughter after,
snaring you with a snarling, daring smile,
the product of a cynical life satire,
making you lose yourself without a trace.
Boy, I wish I could bear this unpunishable feeling
of wearing the grim, evil grin of a villain on my face.
I hope I'm allowed to laugh out loud
at everything, especially at myself.
Isn't that what humor is for?
Not just for laughing at others to feel better about yourself.
That's too shallow.
Life makes you get up to the next level,
cuz it ain’t getting any sweeter or fairer.
I feel in this self-irony, there is always real, iron me,
like real chocolate is bitter.
Yeah, I hate this fake sweet, milk, sugar ****.
The more bitter, the better.
In truth, humor is always dark, without sweetener
so that you can be free as a word
that may be harsh and sharp as a sword,
but also kind and soft as unconditional love,
which is the best reward for being hurt,
as if it's an award for being heard.
I don't care if you were surrounded by seductive witches,
bloodsucking *******, and other supernatural creatures
you have no love left for.
I guess, to love and be loved by your woman,
you both need to have the same sense of humor.
So now you wallow in your philophobia and hate love you can't get rid of.
I, on the other hand, can't help following this awesome feeling I love.
Conversely, I love being in love despite the fear of falling out and being left sore.
And I love you for the same thing I hate you for.
Adorned with gloating goat's horns,
a morose sulky-faced great poet and a grim rapper I adore
turns into the great Grim Reaper
that equalizes all divided by different gods people,
who are stuck in the holy ****** trinity of evil ill stupidity,
living on behalf of the golden calf,
dying in the name of love
for the sake of Jesus ******* Christ
or some other god. Right?
Whoopsie-daisy!
This is egregious, insulting, and crazy.
I'll be ****** or crucified by medieval evil people
if you don't shut me up fast!
Throw your stones and torches,
pitchfork me and scorch me.
Burn the witch, dying for love and your sins,
who deserves your tortures.
For some people, it may sound disgusting.
They just fear believing they're flabbergasted.
You don't wanna be one of them fools, trust me.
These things are not simple
for understanding by the majority of people,
‘cause it's sorta absurd.
A judgmental Christian is an oxymoron.
Saint hypocrites.
What, am I too straightforward for ‘em?
Can pigs fly, though?
Are aristocrats poor?
Yeah, it may sound insolent, but it's true.
Sorry, I tend to be rude,
when you are being mean to me too.
Yep, sure.
The world is full of idiots. So what?
The world is full of idiots, old farts.
You don't want to be inside this farce.
But just in case, get ready to go nuts.
Even a guru can become a doddering fool, though.
Why is it like this? I don't know.
Because life is a joke?
So try not to be too indecently arrogant a genius
who has nothing else left to do
than to shoot himself,
'cause he's surrounded by ******* idiots and degenerates.
Thanks for support, your painful honesty of a bulldog,
the way you bogart the way to the fame you hate,
your boundless kindness, Your Highness
or Majesty, or should I say,
incredible, phenomenal, omnipotent, iconic rap god.
Why do you love to laugh at people's vices,
like a hungry troll,
a troll, sitting on the fence of a deep defence,
which is the best as a good offence.
Why can't you be as nice as, for instance, Jesus Christ, though, bro?
It's not that hard, after all
with your free mind open wide so.
Aren't you tired of your own satire,
trying to satisfy your always hungry mind,
and being a king, constantly proving the right to the crown?
Now, look what you've done.
Why would you need to spoil all the fun, sad clown?
If you don't wanna be alone,
baby, get down from your throne.
Or should you be higher than that,
well, then stay the **** god.
I wish I could help you, but you don't really want it,
and I cannot.
I guess I'm not a loser enough to be a hero
and unsolicitedly give you all I've got,
since, although being overwhelmed with compassion,
I'm also full of ****, a spoiled, bad girl,
so empathetically selfish and special.
My body doesn't grow up anymore.
It can only grow old
until it's finally cold,
while my soul still keeps growing, though.
I feel my soul is already too big and too old for this world,
'cause it just doesn't fit into this *******.
Oh dear Lord, Holy Mother of good God,
how the **** can I say that?
I believe I can say whatever the hell I want.
Isn't that what we're supposed to have the freedom of speech for?
Boy, you, too, must be that impudent, testy, despicably obnoxious, squalid and perverse
to be worthy of your own words!
Let's play, I'm bored.
Not board games, though.
My self-esteem is so low,
'cause it's too high.
Play me hard.
Roast me. Promise it will be awesome.
Torture me till I'm toast, or I find the way to blossom
through concrete like a stubborn ****.
**** me with your words and tear me apart.
Bake me, burn me in hell for my sins, god,
set me on fire, lord of the words
that you learned from comics
to enhance your performance,
ignite my mind and heart
with your satisfying voice,
make me, be my ******* boss.
Don't mind my cussing,
'cause I like to sound beautifully disgusting.
I just love this lingo vocabulary, vernacular architecture of slang,
cuz I was raised among gangsters
in the country of sorrow and tears.
It probably sounds worse than it actually was
because the past is in the past,
and now it is what it is.
I believe all words are good and equal like us, people by default.
It's hard to be hot, though,
when the context is hostile and cold.
It’s not like the so-called “good” words are true,
and the “bad” ones are false,
as if it’s a war
of the words that you like
against those that you don’t.
So are they now a lie? Why?
Just because you think so?
But the truth is that often the truth is unpleasant to hear and to know.
See, these are the words you don’t like, though.
Everyone thinks according to the level of his sins.
Well, I don't give a **** what you think
regardless of whether it's right or wrong.
How can you, fools and hypocrites, limit art?
It's endlessly boundless in its variety, like God.
And there is no human mortality for God,
as the main art is life.
While your free will is limited by his plot,
it has no boundaries inside your mind.
I love each and every word I wrote.
I love them all
equally in the context of my flow.
Word.
I'll show you why.
Check this out.
Here is the concept for y’all to trip on.
If the words are used, they are needed,
like the spectrum of all the feelings.
And if the words are needed, they are all equal.
Or you can pretend to be a xenophobic god
in your own fairy-tale sequel,
verbal Utopia, perfect world.
Well, I don't give a **** about censorship,
not gonna put up with some censurer's ****, God forbid.
I find censoring insensitive,
truth be told.
So I use “bad” words in the right context and call it a joke.
And you can criticise it as much as you want, *******.
Guess what? I also don't give a **** about what you want,
especially if your sense of humor is at the level of an old ****.
What's the matter?
Too “kind” to notice the context behind the fence of the holy rightness,
‘cause, apparently, you are the best representatives of the whole humankind,
albeit a bit biased and blinded by righteous wrath towards “bad” words,
but always ready to save the rest of humanity with your perfect morality?
Should you take offense instead of a joke,
it's your problem and your fault
if you don't dare to be free and bold,
having got used to doing as you're told.
If all you can is mumble, stutter, and choke,
I'll only help you with pushing your *** down the stairs
and stare at you stumble over your throat and fall.
And I don't care if you're scared or hurt.
Life is not fair.
You'll always be its *****, fool, and a scapegoat.
So whatcha gonna do about it?
Fight it with pen in hand for a pistol to release pent-up bile
(epistula non erubescit, right?)
or suppress your pain until it subsides
in the convenient, cozy kindness of self-justifying lies,
being frightened?
It must be exhausting to bear the burden of tears and fears
kept inside of you all those years.
**** ‘em. What's the worst that can happen?
Will your world have to endure the Armageddon
without deranged truth seekers, unhinged fairy tale believers?
Are you afraid of being burned in hell
or expelled from the league of imbeciles?
Drop the heavy load of guilt towards hypocritical sinners.
But if you can't face the apocalypse or find an argument,
don't start to argue, man,
lest you be trying to justify yourself again.
The devil lives in the details,
god in conceptual fairy tales
so that your life would look more meaningful and believable,
like a stand-up joke.
And if it's lethally funny, I'll laugh my *** off
till I have a heart attack or a stroke,
regardless of what you think, so no offense.
Take it easy before the converse stops making sense.
That's my truth.
It doesn't need to be proved
and doesn't have to be approved.
It's just my mindset, my worldview.
You can't be me. I can't be you.
Life is very funny if you have the ability to notice it.
Even after I die, my sense of humor will stay alive.
That's why we have immortal souls to laugh at our mortal bodies.
Yo, how come all the bad stuff is mostly fun?
'Cause humor is dark as death, equally for everyone?
It's actually the essence of humor to laugh at fools from afar
and not to get stuck with them in a joke, duh.
So I don't have to be a saint anymore.
Let me be your slave of love, so to speak,
your insanely in love, queen Margot.
Set me free from the fear of being lost, come along.
You will be my Woland and my Master.
Seize the moment as if you can hold it,
like it's a masterpiece manuscript and you can't burn it.
Stop time, just grasp it faster
as though you are a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat.
Like a reused ****** out of a rabbit hole, you pull off another last trick.
There's no magic in that.
Don't wanna be judgmental, but you're just a boastful monster and a slim slick,
good for nothing but a fling,
seen in a flick
on the big screen
in one hot, short love scene,
jerking me off as always, bag of *****.
*******, I feel the terminal stage of love still lasts, though.
Do you feel me?
I would sell my soul to you if it weren't priceless.
Oh, man, not again!
Yo, this ****** up love is a ******* disaster!


Goodbye kiss joke

I gotta turn the page before it's too late,
and unrequited love inevitably turns into savage hate,
before I'm ****** into rage and end up in the stage of a vicious rampage.
I don't want to stay in the cage of a malicious fake fate.
It's not like I will shout about my feelings at the top of my lungs,
"Oh, I'm gonna cry right now.
Listen to me, everyone!
That's it, I don't give a ****. I'm through with you! We're ******* done!"
**** your petty pity! I don't need it.
I should have gone away a long time ago before the **** hit the fan
and I got the loaded gun demanding more
from you than I think you can think of who you really are,
word master.
Cut the crap.
Don't give me that horsecrap rap trap *******,
priggish, perverted, impertinent *******.
I'm full of it.
Half of your art is about showing off your art,
you arrogant, swaggering braggart,
self-absorbed demure poser
composing your mind,
careless about mine,
soul-exhibitionistic imposer.
So I'mma just bust a cap
and **** the King Kong with a big ****
who claims to be the god of rap,
destroy the crazy dopest goat,
my dreary Moby-*******-****,
stupid moon on a stick.
You don't own me,
'cause you don't know me,
you're not my homie,
and I don't owe you ****.
I'm not your groupie,
hanging on your huge, impossible-to-swallow ****,
who's so ******* lucky just to **** it.
Stop being so stupid,
big-headed, twisted ******* *****.
You don't deserve me. *******!
I don't wanna be your fan.
You may think there can't be ex-fans of yours, like there are no ex-drug addicts.
Yeah, right. You wish. Why don't you write a song about it
to convince me again that you still can?
Can you, really?
I don't believe you.
I think you're lying. Are you?
As if people still require
your daring dire satire
with vile iron ire
and want to keep their eye on
your iron ginormous *****
too big for your pants.
Do they still write your words on the walls
and watch your wars
full of spite and wrath
till your last breath,
till life ***** you to death?
And the best part is, being ***** by it,
you have to take pleasure in it.
Real legends don't get old.
They burn fast like shooting stars.
You've had your chance and missed it, though,
having tried to compensate for it later
with the magnificent rehearsal.
Since no one was good enough to ****** you, so to speak,
**** you lyrically,
you did it yourself,
albeit just for fun.
Well, luckily, now I'm armed with a gun
and ready to do some serious harm.
Boy, are you stern and cold.
Thank God, not dead yet, though.
Seriously, man, can I offer my help,
immortalize and save your art
before it gets ugly so you could stay forever young?
Let me set you free.
‘Course, I know, you're not that old,
but definitely old enough to wear a beard
to show the whole **** world
that half of you has disappeared.
"A beard is a symbol of wisdom," I heard today from a passer-by.
And here you are again, a boy with a beard,
like a promiscuous lady, succulent vamp, luscious *****,
hot jade with a wise *** and an unshaved ******
with the price tag of an arm and a leg,
flashing noble ***** knights in shining armor,
looking for some nookie with a ******,
and lascivious grafs ****-you-offs
so that they could treat you like ****,
eat you and die
to show all the hussies who’s the man.
Oh, well, it’s so **** nice.
To minx or not to minx?
I guess, it's not for you to decide.
Boy, you must be such a wise guy.
Big deal, *****, so am I.
God, are you so funny and smart,
wise enough to improvise with smart-*** rhymes in yo' freestyle,
the best emcee so everyone can see
the master of controversy,
the main character and the actor in one,
who can use rap as a gun.
But that's not all.
The tip of the iceberg.
I'm just saying it to you in case you didn't know.
Yeah, all women like to laugh at men's stupid jokes
till they don't even notice how they're being laid already, though.
By the way, grandpa, how's your sugar level and blood pressure?
Sure, you’re still the greatest of old time, my precious.
You are getting darker than the eclipse
and brighter than the sun.
Don't burn me, falling in agony, please.
You look so lonely, 'cause you are the only one.
Wow, are you on fire!
Sweet rap messiah, you're not dying, are ya?
Unless maybe just the hair
that used to be blond, now brunette.
What’s up with that?
At least you are not bald or grey-haired.
****, what a ****** fan I am!
One day I will be your ex-fan
and (how do I put this? Ahem!)
you will be a fan of your own fan.
Meanwhile, I'll procrastinate, manifest, and meditate,
unable to end this poem,
till I reach my aim,
my fantastic goal,
even if it's too big for a small girl like me.
In any case, it's all your fault, my friend.
Yes, it is.
I cannot blame myself for your sins.
But I don't mind forgiving me mine.
Since the sinner is you, I am a sinner too.
So **** this! As you are one of a kind,
here is one last goodbye kiss on your soft lips.
Now, baby, please, get down on your knees,
beg for mercy, pray to spare your life
or kiss your *** goodbye,
'cause I won't miss you, reminisce about you,
feel guilty for this innocent crime inside my criminal mind.
Man, I don't wanna dis you,
but since you kinda want this, I think,
I promise the last thing you'll see
will be me, writing here my thoughts of you, spitting a rhyme.
How can I possibly be responsible for a person I don't even know?
I don't believe I'm supposed to be. Why should I?
Will it stop you from spitting out your truth?
I'm sure you'll say no, won't you?
I thought so. I know it. I want you to be brutally true.
That's what I love about you.
I get that, I do.
You noodle, scribble and doodle, complain, skedaddle from your pain
to replace it with people's wheedling fondles, cuddles, canoodles
to feel worthy of their love again,
being just a crying for help, desperate for love *****.
And this drug is stronger, niggler.
It's worse 'cause it works without words.
Well, even though you're a ******* **,
there is nothing to be ashamed of.
There's nothing wrong
in being a holy-mother-of-god-ly horrifying *****.
Yo, **, **, **,
immoral *******' horror.
The more approval from people and awards you get,
the more you want,
'cause it doesn't really give you anything,
can't fill your eternally hungry black hole,
greedy *****.
Now, I know it's not yo' fault
that you were born in this horrible world.
But you are still a whining sinner,
pretending to be a winner,
drowning in the sea of guilty conscience,
justifying yourself with words,
cuz you can't swim in it
while going down on a sinking boat.
So now all that's left for you is to stand up for yourself and become your own god
who was so depressed because of being alone
that he created the whole world to feel love.
And you may call yourself a serial killer,
but you are not even a real sinner
if you still cannot
nail or crucify your god.
Booyaka! The *******'s killed by his ******* nuts stalker.
The Grim Reaper's buried under the tree of poetry.
We'll see what I can reap out of this rap goats’ cemetery.
Life's a short road from your mother's womb to the graveyard tomb anyway.
I’ll probably just end up listening to yo’ hip-hop again.
Abracadabra!
Here comes the lunatic’s cadaver.
Don't worry, I'll resurrect you
after you've got dissected.
Ok, I won't dramatize, or I may get traumatized.
My bad. I apologize.
I can sound not very nice at times.
I'm sorry if I was too honest,
sorry for all I've said before
and in advance,
for everything I'll say after.
You know I'll make it up to you. I promise.
My words will make you craftier and tougher
so that again I can unpurposely be *******
for stupidly not noticing when I am crude.
I'm not afraid of mistakes and difficulties.
At least, I'd like to think so.
What did you expect, though?
You are a rapper.
Every your fan is your potential hater,
hungry, greedy, disrespectful,
tired of waiting,
starting to love you, ready to hate you,
hatin’ lovin’ you.
Let's end it, step aside for a moment,
pretend that we can be normal
for some time,
that we are fine for now,
'cause it's pretty stressful to be obsessed.
So just in case, let's make it at least less intense
lest we get tired of too much offense.
We'd better go back to tender love
instead of rough, outrageous, brain-******-and-breaking ***.
Relax, I'm joking, not trynna shoot ya, **** ya, or choke ya.
Not really killing anyone here.
Just kidding, having some fun with you, dear.
Though, I don't wanna be attached to you
or infatuated about you
and afraid to admit that I crave for
and scared of being touched by you,
as you also deliver top-notch romance in your lyrics.
It turns me on and turns into limerence,
the obsessive incessant necessity to be loved,
‘cause I lacked it as a child,
forsaken by God.
Perhaps I'm just being infantile,
though not too childish,
cowardly to laugh at misery for real.
To laugh at the theater of the absurd from your soul,
you have to watch it, not play the role, after all.
I gotta get outta here,
forget this foolish nightmare,
pretending to be a sweet dream
where I'm tearing and bleeding
with my words versus yours
especially those that hurt the most.
It's just a preposterous verse
you can't stop reading,
artificial reality, imaginary multiverse
where I can feel real raw metaphors.
Nevertheless, it unfortunately deserves
to be called careless, embarrassing, and gross.
It drives me off the deep end course.
But it's also challenging, provocative, and bold,
though must be too controversial to be sold,
too deep, so deep that it’ll stay in me,
‘cause I'm writing my ******* bible,
have already written it, actually.
And the Bible is free.
Although I'm simply playing with words,
I know this kind of games can be dangerous.
I wouldn't exaggerate and imagine
that life was comic, if it weren't tragic,
unless you can prove that it's not true.
Well, I guess that is impossible to do.
It's not that I don't realize that my words are fraught with consequences.
Even so, I almost feel like nothing can hurt me now, and I'm gon’ live forever.
It sounds like sheer nonsense, nonetheless I do,
because at the most you will read this verse
when it’s perfect, or when you’re ready, I assume,
which will happen maybe…
uh, yeah, most definitely never,
or at least, you won't read all this any time soon
and won't say anything whatsoever.
So I'll keep playing my silent game anyway,
pondering about pointless stuff to forever elaborate
on some stupid **** simultaneously,
making it look poignant and clever,
'cause even though I might be not good at, let's say, baking cakes or pies,
I do have a black belt in piling up rhymes.
In case you, however, deign to teach me some manners and whoop my ***,
spank me with your hard and heavy raps,
do it fast, if you must,
'cause my level by now is supposed to be advanced.
Make me repent the sins of my pen
that inks more than I think about the past.
Give me your masterpiece.
Show me your master class.
It sounds good, ain't it?
Feels good too, god ******.
It should have become a cakewalk at some point, anyways.
Otherwise, what's the point, though, right?
I gotta raise the bar, writing catchphrases,
fire a metaphorical gun, shooting punch lines in your face
right between the eyes
blow your brains out,
scatter ‘em all over the place
and expand your mind,
entering outer space.
Now feel the silence in the gaps,
read between the lines,
find your peace there
for no more war.
RIP so I could reap what I sow.
Master peace to become a masterpiece.
And don't even try to rise from the dead, bruh, like eva.
(Though, it actually sounds a bit too smug,
because, like a "normal person",
I've written the whole poem behind your back.)
What can I say?
I just love to make people laugh
until they cry at the same time,
breaking their stereotypes.
****, you're gone.
A divine supernova bursts stark into a black-hole devil.


Evil love

‘Course, I know you’ll always be my master, but it’s okay,
‘cause masters also depend on their slaves.
I think you understand that there would be no you as you are now
without me and your fans,
‘cause when you make jokes to yourself,
you're also glad when someone believes you.
By the way, what's up with your fanatical bots?
Man, you know, I don't ******* like it
when your butthead bot-like fans cooking up their idol
out of themselves, insane impostors,
stupid rookies, a bunch of clowns with clone accounts,
pathetic imitators,
******* fakers,
******* impersonators,
poor sick dumb *******,
millions of ******* minions,
limitless hordes of tedious idiots,
boring unstoppable morons
seek for my attention and approval,
**** me off, and
at the same time make me laugh, 'cause
they keep mistaking me for one of them, your AA support group,
godforsaken flock, your army of lovers,
wrapped around your *******,
breathtaking, irresistible humdinger.
I think the only person that can save you from yourself is you.
Suppose I left you for good.
Can I really forget about you?
If only I could
dump devilishly evil love that's tough but feels so good,
so **** good that even bad.
A burning pleasure that hurts
with the sweetest pain I've ever felt.
So should you hurt me, do it gently,
as you still can do it in bed, I bet.
Wait, man, not again!
That's not what I meant.
It's just a silly relapse.
It's not like I'm gonna sit on your face
or your lap
even in the context of rap.
I guess when you click with someone,
you can have this kind of fun.
That's okay.
But hey, let's not get carried away.
I'll keep doing my best to stay sober and sane till I collapse.
I’m so sorry for the innuendo.
Next time I'd better be more circumspect,
'cause it's probably inappropriate.
Should I take you for a friend, though?
You know, I prefer to believe I could pull that off
and refer to you as a friend
even if you were a ******* ****** or a ******.
Let's pretend that I'm your friend.
Would that be enough?
Anyway, it wasn't my intention
to make you feel any tension or unwanted passion.
Don't take it to heart, forget what I said.
It has nothing to do with you.
I'm crossing the line again, take it too far.
You can't be that bad.
Satanically evil devil.
Diabolically saint Satan.
You combine cockiness with humility,
quality with stupidity.
It doesn't matter even if you say that
it feels so good to be bad.
I'm sure whatever you wish you could do should be said.
And it's not your job to solve other people's problems or suit
the expectations of a stranger you've never met.
Not to mention that you don't have to pay too much attention
to every nonsense and stupid ****
that comes from my sick *** head.
I reckon, while looking like a bad boy on the surface, you're a good guy inside
or at least a good-looking bad guy.
Neither can I lie like that.
C'mon, of course, I don't really want to sit on your face.
In my defense, I lie to myself and justify my words by saying I'm just a good writer.
So I'd rather sit on the fence,
fooling around.
Yeah, I don't really want ya.
You realize I'm just ******* with you, doncha?
Oh dear, but I'm afraid you'll notice that I'm a bad liar.
What the **** did you expect, man?
Every your hater is your latent, negative fan,
accepting the rules of the game,
trying to change them later
except for one: the love of hatin’ you.
What the hell were you thinking
when you wanted to become a rapper,
starting as a rising star of your future fans' local newspapers?
As if you don't know what's going on in the heads of your fans.
All they want is to be you, like you or with you, *******.
But you don’t even give a ****, do you?
Well, whad'ya know! I guess **** happens.
Sometimes you think you recognized someone
when, in fact, you took 'em for somebody else.
Even though, I ain't deny it,
I am a terrible liar, god awful at this.
Still, it was worth trying.
What choice do I have? I can't help it.
It's like a bad habit.
And you know they die hard.
So what?
In order to look more decent and less rude,
I'mma… keep lying
until it becomes true,
the dream of the reality reboot.
While my mind screams, "Oh, hell no! I don't think so,"
my heart says,"**** yeah! I'm almost there."
Sorry for the ***** metaphor.
I write like a *****.
In no way did I mean to be mean and delve into the devil dancing, dude.
I just like dancing.
And I don't wanna use my words as a weapon.
I'm not rapping.
Baby, I'm telling the truth!
I ******* love you.
I love ******* with you.
Too bad, this love is evil.
Besides, it sounds too good to be true
for an oxymoron,
a beautiful masochistic figure of speech for morons.
I'd better ditch this queening *****,
'cause it seems that all I do is try to forget you.
But do I really have to?
Even if I do, I'm not sure I can get over you.
****, you don't give a ****, though,
and still have no clue.
And I will never matter to you.
Although I wouldn't kiss and tell,
I doubt that you'd even care
to notice my love, being in love with yourself,
such a ******* ******* child.
Well, all this beauty is for me then, not for you.
It's not that I want to bust a cap, rhyme, or a myth.
But how many women have you really been with?
I hate to admit that it must feel good to eat a forbidden fruit.
What if I ate this ******* apple?
Why an apple, by the way?
It could be a banana, for ****'s sake.
Whatever, it doesn't matter.
The point is it's a metaphor
for liberation from the paradise prison for apes,
who painfully grow up
to find out how to become a free from human morality god.
But if you can't handle your sins,
maybe, you don't deserve that.
What I can do
is pretend
that I should understand
how to push through
and move on till it seems I can finally forget you
to change, evolve, create and grow,
'cause I can't take it anymore.
I gotta dig in my feet
till I start digging it,
throw you out of my system,
lest you become too real, way too persistent,
get control over the hideous, insidious monster,
hiding inside my aching soul,
get rid of the bad habit of diving into the gaping hole
of ferocious fears of love turning destructive, feral, and fierce
when life is atrociously real,
feel free to recover from the past,
buried in time at last,
leave the weird, love, solipsistic symbiosis behind,
say goodbye to the human neurosis of being alive,
realize that I should open my eyes,
wake up and smell the roses
in a terrifyingly lucid dream I live in,
in the elusive present moment,
find life balance, hormonal harmony,
learn to turn suffering into pleasure while surviving,
go through the metamorphosis
from the cocoon of verbose neurosis
to a beautiful butterfly,
the free poetry that can fly
into the unborn future where it can thrive and die.
And if I need to escape reality again,
I hope I still will be able to find the way.
Despite all the **** happening in this world,
all these wars, travesty of life,
lurid farce, insane asylum,
senseless grotesque circus,
the theater of the absurd,
where things are not what they're called,
please, Love, don't let me go!
Even though I keep saying no,
I know you won't let me go.
And I'll give it all to you
lest I be lost like a wretched wreck, sad sack of ****
and disappear in my own misery.
So I guess I have no choice.


This verse is alive

This ****** verse grows like a red, hot rose
from a stinky dark mess that smells mighty bad, so gross.
Thorny, aggressive, *****.
Take a look. It's already bloomed.
One touch, It will sting your skin and nerves
as if it's poisonous.
As if the venom can spread to your brain,
while the sweet aroma crawls through your nose.
You inhale, you inspire.
Goat, you wanna devour the whole ******* flower,
‘cause it gives you the illusion of power.
You stand beside it, staring,
like a hungry cat at a sparrow,
hearing your soul sing and flood,
you think that you see yourself sink in the sea of blood;
In fact, you merely bleed into spring muddy streams and puddles.
Playing my heartstrings, you scream and squeeze the crimson rose even harder
and want some more than your usual dose,
‘cause it's outrageously beautiful and shamelessly pure,
as you can feel your blood dripping from its thorns.
Don't be so cruel,
fill me up with some more fuel.
You will be my first, I will be your last
to come from intellectual lust.
Do you feel my words make you mine?
Do you wanna know why?
That's because this verse is alive.
It eats you all and frees your mind.
In this moment is your entire life for you to sublime
and see your soul's growth.
There's a place for everyone
on the planet Earth
except for those who are being eaten.
So beat it not to be beaten.
The show must go on.
So be it.
One life has to end for the other one to be continued.
Or stay, 'cause I want you to feel me in ya
the way I think I see god in ya
and wanna feel you IN me.
Like you and I, this verse constantly changes and grows,
expands like the universe,
as if it wants to consume the whole world
and destroy the cosmos
where it came from,
drowning in self, unfolds
to reveal its true form.
Inexorable entropy relentlessly dissolves
in nonsensical chaos
of nauseous word *****,
lyric verbal diarrhea,
disintegrating into syllables, letters, stream of consciousness,
being caught by a flight of the thought of the flight of a thought,
hilarious convulsions of ridiculous subconscious mind flow.
When it stops, it will eventually die.
So if you read this,
it probably seems that
Schrödinger's cat is trapped in your head,
neither alive nor dead.
And the fact that I might be still writing it
is, frankly speaking, quite frightening.
But also, in the process of growing, I'm enjoying my poem,
being obsessed with the idea of the illusion that I'm obsessed with the image of you,
the fantasy that embodies itself in the form of this verse in the virtual world,
searching for perfection in the night sky, lit by dead stars, reaching for the moon,
in time, to leave the space where I am now for the real one, and then one more.
This may actually become a masterpiece after the death of the author.
At the same time, it's possibly
one of the most narcissistic verses,
written by a presumably the most modest person,
that has ever existed in this world
and will stay in the history
as the distinctive but illusive evidence,
based on evasive traces,
a pale shadow,
the echo of the stars long gone.
Whatever it is, it's for you to decide.
It's your choice, of course.
Is it, though?
For some reason, it always seems to be Sophie's choice.
So I guess it is what it is.
But why on earth does it always have to be like this?
I don't know.
It isn't easy, is it?
It's easier to be decapitated by a mind-breaking wizard
than to choose between two ideally evil ideas or thoughts.


The word owns you

Anyway, it's almost dead already, too bad, too old.
So I gotta put it out of its misery with a rusty shovel,
**** it out of mercy at some point.
I hope you feel me, understand what I wrote,
it's not that difficult and obscure.
Are you following my thought?
If you're not sure,
I assure you, you do.
You're just unsure if it's the right direction for you.
Don't take my art too literally.
You can break my heart if you want.
I don't care,
'cause it's pretty much virtual,
supposed to be in my chest,
but not there.
Don't get me wrong.
It's not a big fat flattering love letter, you know.
I'm merely studying you under the microscope,
like a scientist slicing and dicing a frog,
anatomizing your black soul's dark guardian angel
you are so desperately craving for
who is capable of quenching your thirst
for the only language a dark angel knows,
which is a wild evil love.
He's behind you all the way
in the hall of fame on the wall of shame.
Stop being a hostage of your own role.
You're on your own from now on,
not lonely, alone only, though.
You were a good, slim fellow.
But now you've become even better.
Keep using your flaws,
rotten pieces of the mind of your future corpse
to hone your skills and master your soul.
And when you're deeply alone and unknown,
you'll gain your total freedom.
I'm sure you've already started to write a song about it,
and, of course, your new album will be double platinum.
To be actually free,
you must just adjust and really need to see
through the prism of your soul
that your self-important beloved self-torture
you are so deeply engrossed in,
thinking it's motivating,
yet instead, it's instigating,
self-indulgent suffering rapture,
absorbing you, is worthless.
Don't feed yourself to your pain.
It will obliterate your brain,
devastate your heart and burn you in its flame.
You're more significant than this.
The contents of your shape are more important than the context of the game.
You became too big for your frame
and keep growing, because you can.
I didn't suffer too much, just enough to be what I am.
You are not broken completely, just enough to be what you are,
to transform the weakness of man
into the power of god.
I wanna evolve with you,
because I’m in love with you.
You need pain to appreciate love,
fear of death to cherish life
so you can feel when it correlates
with the nature's grace in many ways
and shapes your soul, your gestalt.
I love to see my body change and my consciousness grow.
I love life because it's temporary.
It's my favorite show.
There's not much to say. You've been through a lot.
We've all been. So what?
And we all still have this hurt, scared, sulky, depressed, enraged teenager inside.
So don't act like your sorrow is wider than the universe.
You're not the only one of your kind.
You know, it's not that entertaining
to see the vivid pictures you paint with your pain and
listen to your heart-breaking complainings.
As if your cathartic torments and problems are worth my emotional resources.
Like I didn't suffer from my own losses,
or wait for the right response
as a sufficient answer from the wrong person.
Unlike all miserable people,
I don't want to be miserable like you.
Though I do want you to be happy,
like I am right now,
even though I'm not good enough
in finding the right words to show you how.
I mean, you think you own the word,
when, in fact, the word owns you.
You don't come up with words,
they come up to you
in the point of singularity inside the circle of limited abilities
but with the point of view
of an intentionally infinite creative potential
to elaborate on undeliberate liberation
and become broad-minded too.
But how can I know my potential if I can't reach the unreachable thresholds?
Feelings are precious because of being captivating and transient.
This is how this world works.
Well, apparently, life is not only a paradise
but also a hell sometimes.
**** happens.
Let it go, just go with the flow.
Life smacks and *****.
You snap and grow.
Should you hit rock bottom,
push off and break through the ceiling.
Push the limits.
I know you like this feeling.
Never give in, toy soldier, fighting monsters.
Keep cracking nuts and silly jokes.
Don't be too melodramatic.
You're not a lost cause
or lonely Captain Obvious
on his enormous ship,
drowning in his ****.
As I’ve already told ya,
I want you to be happy.
We’ll go together through your highs and lows.
I stand behind you as though behind the brick wall.
I am your shadow, you are my hero.
The faith in you of like-minded people, your fans
strengthens your faith in yourself,
and you grow as a god,
who's not lonely in the solitude of his art.
Listen, life is more than just a struggle or a competition.
It could be a journey or a lesson.
So start to count your ******* blessings.
And would it **** ya to smile once in a while?
It's not a contest in who suffers more
or whose **** is the biggest.
**** a lemon, dude,
enjoy and feast on your shitburger with gratitude,
don't give up, but embrace bad luck,
put your hands in the air like you don't give a ****,
for your only freedom is in your attitude.
There are no mistakes or coincidences in your serendipitous destiny,
nor one rhyme or reason, or justice for all.
Even poetical.
It's just this one sole moment we're kept in,
like in prison for the soul.
So the question is not, to be or not to be,
but can I or am I compelled by the belief that it's impossible?
It just happened to be this way
so that now it can only be called fate.
Enjoy the path that you chose.
Have a nice ride along the road
to the timeless nowhere and nevermore.
Suffice to say that it's a beautiful and terrible world
where we can't tame a feeling by describing it,
not even with sophisticated phrases.
We only follow it, always behind
like a famished wolf, chasing its prey,
softly, with an untiresome determination,
stepping on its traces,
left here with prayers
in deafening silence to the higher self
who's free from ambiguity and hypocrisy,
'cause it's content, self-sufficient, wordless, selfless.


Morfreeda

If your mind resembles mine,
you must know what I'm talking about.
The divine power I feel is the source of
my undying force of vicious words
and a spark that can start a fire,
for which I use you as an instrument or a tool.
Well, what can I say?
I have been using you.
I did need it. So I did it.
Not to humiliate you, but to annihilate you,
I made you a part of my immortal, immaterial, nonexistent speculative art,
the deceiving art of a self-believing word god
in the body of a biological robot.
Good thing if you're also a coder
aside from being merely a human being,
for if you become old and ugly,
then you have to learn how to appreciate the beauty inside you,
else you're either a lame coder
or you go further, do not give up.
I think, in this case, you switch to become a god.
Otherwise, what's the point, though?
So use your brain as a processor
to get access to the database of your soul.
Yeah, good thinking. Why not?
It may sound messy and depressing,
but also interesting and impressive,
'cause when I start writing,
it seems like I stop living and start dying,
putting my heart and soul into words,
can't get rid of my poetical mortido,
doomed to be in love with searching for more freedom.
It makes me think I have enough power of spirit
in the fragile flesh to admit that
I don't live but gradually die
and that I'm worthy of the brave and honorable name Morfreeda.
And once you get to know her,
I think she's actually kinda sorta nice,
quite nice, yeah,
(right, wait what? Nice?
You call that nice?
Jesus ******* Christ!)
as long as she doesn't disturb others,
duh,
describing her thoughts,
when she's out of sorts,
‘cause thoughts being spoken are a lie
despite the theoretical ability to be materialized.
You don't get them if you don't feel them to survive.
And even if you do,
it is still not quite true
as it just seems I understand you.
After art chaos has systematized
with the feeling embodied,
creative energy has formed,
dark matter has become tactile,
it's bound to realize itself and die,
then again to be born
with no end, God knows why.
I accept the fact that I'm not here forevermore,
at the same time
can't comprehend that I'll disappear completely.
I guess my ego just needs to think so
hopefully to complete me,
but I'm afraid, for it to live, it needs to eat me.
After flying around high in the space sky,
I'm falling down to the ground
and even lower, deeper and darker
straight towards the hell underground.
So how come I fell and felt like I'm in hell, dead,
but turned out to be in paradise, more than alive instead?
Here I dwell in my fairy tale
with the consciousness level sky-*******-rocketing,
sitting on the rainbow cloud of love
spitting down from above.
You get it, right? You become immortal too,
sharing your growing soul with your aspiring admirer
through your inspiring art that will never expire.
It becomes a part of us,
united by one everlasting love that turns us into gods.
Why not?
With you, I'm free and wild,
can say whatever I want, smile,
and be not afraid or shy
to look like a child.
You are a hell of an artist.
And I love this about you.
While slowly dying,
you entertain and enjoy yourself by making up your plot,
writing.
Although I know I've created the character of you
in the image of an attentive god in my mind,
while in reality he's oblivious, you don't care, and I talk to myself,
created in the image of my soul, the sense,
materialized in the body,
learning to realize itself in its life
(for what?)
I feel I can be anything from a crushed roach or a stupid woman
finding herself absorbed by a mind-boggling time-consuming thought
to a convincingly invincible, imperishable, really superhuman god.
****, that's some spiritual, awakening, dopest ****. Enjoy it.
Never hesitate, though, to tell me I make a mistake, word slave,
so that I wouldn't feel all too high and mighty.
But don't underestimate me. Okay?
Kindly bite me.
Even if I think it's worth being called high-quality literature,
written by a highly spiritual creature,
every time I say I'm a god,
keep convincing me that I'm not.
Humiliate and humble me with your immodest art,
try to bring me back to my rut.
Even if I am brilliant
don't you ******* ever tell me I'm one in a million.
I don't wanna hear it.
Let me silently rot in my tranquil oblivion.
I obviously can't hold a candle to you, duh.
But I'm tired of holding it for you.
And I'm not sure if I can handle my mental state
with the willpower melting and getting soft like cotton wool.
I will never be good enough,
because even though I may feel I deserve to hold
all the platinum and gold of the whole world,
I'm afraid I would trade it for your love.


Free will

Didn't want to make it too complicated,
but I did indeed overcontemplate it.
One more thing to wrap it up.
Stay my pie in the sky,
my pure platonic love,
unreachable idol, perfect guy,
I made up in my mind,
'cause the cake is a lie.
And what's ideal
in reality is not real.
The farther you are,
the lesser the harm,
the better I will become,
for the bigger my ego,
the lesser I am.
People love to be in love with their idols,
‘cause they see them in themselves.
So I like you because I'm like you.
Yeah, I know, it's another cliché,
but it's true.
Your life will be just fine
as long as you don't interfere with mine.
Let's keep this agonizingly screaming secret
about a childish curiosity growing into an adult lust,
getting wilder and sicker between us,
disguising it with passionate patience
characteristic of mentally unstable patients
with unrealistic expectations,
deeply hidden in the **** sculpture,
the virtual statue of forever frozen hot feelings.
I'll be your pipe dream too.
I don't wanna be your fan anymore.
You gotta let me go.
I just need more than this. I choose love,
even if it's not with you.
You can hug me if you want.
I do surrender to my last love.
It frees me and enslaves me
till my death comes.
Though, I want you, too, to be inspired,
be always capable of more.
Also, at least, my friend, please, don't deny it.
You love the image of a *****.
Hey, what ya know?
Even Jesus's female apostle
is gossiped to be a groupie and a *****
according to the Gospels, after all.
So she's been called.
So what?
Despite the rumor,
she's also considered to be a faithful fan,
devoted follower, and a loyal woman, though.
What a great potential for a saint *****,
for a human soul to grow into a god.
Yo, does it offend you
that I don't wanna be your fan, dude?
'Cause I think I understand you.
I don't wanna have a crowd of fans either,
just one reader.
Nor do I wanna like you as a fan,
'cause I like you as a human
with a very peculiar sense of humor, man,
and as a humble, simple, easy-going person,
the genius of controversy.
Yet, I still feel like I am but the best,
meanest queen of yo' fans
in your a little shady, big fat ******' fan club,
the evilest ***** in your devilish church
or, as you call it, the satanic cult,
where you are the ******* king and the supreme god,
kinda like Jesus, the protector of ******,
poor, weak, bad girls,
who were so delighted to be near someone so enlightened
and so perfectly good,
that it looked as though God himself came on to them and ****** all over their faces,
glowing with the golden light of God's dew.
And they would be endlessly grateful,
kiss him, embrace him,
'cause that's how great, obviously, God's grace is.
(Geez! I think I might be at risk
of being put into jail for this
too free-speech a piece
or, at worst, burned in hell.
Oh, well… some people are just impossible to appease,
like those ******* never flying pigs.
Pardon my French. I meant the police.)
Man, should you refuse to be my friend,
that's alright.
I'm not mad and don't mind.
I'll understand.
Hopefully, I won't be banned
because you're afraid of becoming my friend,
like you are in need of another fan.
What for?
To be together in this, like we are married?
You've already got millions of them.
Why would you want one more?
Especially if he’s as miserable as you are.
There are too many of them.
I clearly can't be the biggest one.
I can never be your woman
and gotta admit
you can't be in love with me.
Even if you ban me, hiding behind your fame
knock yourself out. I won't blame you, really.
Man, I'd probably do the same.
So no hard feelings.
Tell me you don't need me,
give me just one reason,
and I'll leave ya,
won't bother you again.
I think, to stop being a fan,
one should be worthy of their idol.
Otherwise, it looks pathologically pathetic and suicidal.
It sounds anarchistic and utopian,
but I believe that everyone
is supposed to be their own god,
a creator of their own art.
Most people just don't know that.
You're designed this way,
it's in the spiral of your DNA, your blood,
undulates like a wave around the golden middle way.
You're a miserable and dissolving in God part
if you do not create your god.
After all, you are allowed to imagine whatever you want
since you've been given a virtual free will
to select your reality version.
It's your only freedom to choose what you want to feel,
which feeling you prefer to be thrilled with or drown in.
You know, you and I,
we don’t even have to die.
I mean, we have been given the whole palette of feelings
not just to disappear.
You can choose your reality now
and stay here forever, if you will.
We have an endless number of abilities in our limited imagination
longing for getting over the boundaries of reality to meet our expectations
for being surprised
and break free from stereotypes.
Reality scares us, it's always unknown.
That's why we run from it by creating our own.
For this, we have art
to interpret it somehow and hopefully find out why
and how to overcome our sense of mind.
We'll see how I can handle my sins.
If I can separate myself from at least one,
that will appear to be nearly a miracle I've hardly ever seen
or will see before I'm gone.
You know, back in the day,
I thought I wanted to stop writing this.
Now it turns out I don't,
'cause if I did really want,
I would have done it a long time ago.
I believe I'm about to let it go
but still ready for more.
Déjà vu
or just a flashback.
I’ve been here with you.
It all had happened already before.
How many times? I lost track.
I don't mind if it dies with me,
don't care what it does to me anymore,
even if it erases me into dust.
Let it be.
Let it burn in me
for me forever to be free.
The rhapsody spread with the speed of a viral infection or a rumor,
vile perseverance of an early bloomer,
exhilaration of the generation of baby boomers,
then outgrew me like a tumor.
I'm not afraid to take it to my grave.
But I wish you could tell me it's all not in vain,
that it's not lost on you.
I want you to see my pain
so that you want me to be your friend too.
At the same time, the most important thing seems to be art,
'cause while I'm mortal, it's not.
It's bigger than you and me,
or any human being, actually.
Manuscripts don't burn. They break free
and stay in their authors' souls for eternity,
as the light of dead stars in the memory of celestial gods.
And nothing else matters,
if it's destined to be.
For this, artists sacrifice their lives on the altar of art.
It's a drug that most likely will **** me.
Art engulfs you like dope bliss or ******
and takes you to Shangri-La,
from where you don't wanna come back,
like a ******* sexaholic, hopeless romantic, or a ******* ******.
I feel I'm more to you than just a fan.
And you are more to me than just a god.
You'd always been more like my rap guide, mentor, brother, and a friend,
apparently the closest one so far,
so good, in fact,
the best friend I have never had.
Even if I don't see how my magic actually worked,
and you read what I wrote,
should you not get to read this before you die,
or I finally lose my mind,
too big for the cell of the scull.
my love will find you in your next life.
I believe I have enough free will for that.
I'm at the same point of the same circle again
to realize that I have free will to change my fate.
How much freedom of will do you need, or you think you have?
50/50? At least you've got yourself.
Sounds fair, not too shabby.
Isn't that enough?
Don't be afraid to love.
When are you really happy?
Tell me, answer, guy.
When you got nothing to lose in your life except your life?
The older I get, the more vividly I realize that.
Don't be a wuss.
You have nothing to lose.
Be happy if you want, trust me.
When you believe in yourself,
you are the master,
the master of the Universe,
made of indestructible star-dust love.
I wanna evolve with you,
as though I’m in love with you.
Yo, dawg, you are the goat.
But I gotta go further.
I'll dive deeper into the flow of my thoughts and see how it goes.
Although my mind is the figment of the imagination of the creator
and, as a character, I say his words,
the character's free will comes from the subconsciousness of the author.
So my fate is God's plot.
But what if I am the god?


Farewell*

I wonder if we could be real friends.
Well, I guess it depends
on many things.
And I know it's superfluous, let alone too good to be true,
considering the fact that I can't be a good friend to you
till I feel I so much depend on you.
Though, I do want to know you
and wouldn't mind if you got to know me too.
I hope you don't see me as an annoying, rude intruder.
If I could say it more delicately and subtly, I would've.
I started this verse as your worst fan
and ended it as your best imaginary friend.
Even though I recognize you in me, man,
I don't actually intend to be your real friend.
It's all in my head. So I guess it's farewell, then.
Do you need a hug?
Oh, yeah, I forgot. You don't give a ****.
Sorry you had to be involved.
It's not your fault.
Don't be upset about anything I've said.
I thought it mattered what I said and why I said it.
Forgive me if I hurt your feelings.
I thought I was telling the truth.
While I was just fighting my demons,
it looked like I was in love with you.
I also believed I was playing with a toy.
It turned out I was simply paying with my time for the marketing ploy.
Now I wanna evolve alone, without you,
‘cause I’m not really in love with you.
Indeed, why did I even want you to read it?
I gotta admit,
why would I need you, when I got me?
I know I've said a lot of batshit crazy things,
but the only important and sane one is this.
Dude, it's a tribute of my gratitude and respect to you.
Talking to you is a pleasure of making love brutally true.
So in the end, this **** is not that bad, I assume.
However, you perhaps shouldn't even have read about this castle in the air,
evoked by the seizure of inspiration,
a theatrically emotional spasm.
All I really wanted to say is that my imagination with you is a limitless chasm.
I co-create with you.
Anticipation is more desirable than a big-bang ******.
The conversation, spiced up with wicked humor and brilliant sarcasm,
fires up the burning sensation of passion
to always find something new in you
thanks to your enormous confidence,
eminent will power, high self-esteem and IQ.
I mean, to succeed, you didn't even need to finish school.
My evil genius, expressed in being eloquent, angry, and rude,
stupefyingly cool and cute,
feeling eternal spring in the cell of solitude.
For this, I'm forever grateful,
a hopeless romantic, lost in love fool.
Don't ever let me forget you!

Don't let me forget you.

P.S. With all that said, though, I realized
I appeared to be merely a fan, losing my time,
'cause if I wanna be a peer to a god,
apparently, I gotta have my own art.
Though, you'll live forever in my memory,
even after you die.
I'll resurrect you, for you're my favorite,
concrete matter, indeed divine.
See you. I promise, you won't get lost,
just in case you forgot.
I'll create new you without words
in the best of my worlds, my god.
An epic, free-verse, long poem, rhapsody, tribute to Eminem without censorship whatsoever.

— The End —