I was like every other scientist
for love to me was just
a neural reaction to a certain
stimulus presented to an individual,
just a hormonal response of a person
to a certain situation laid out to them
Like a configuration of ****** muscle
tissue of one results to an increase
of serotonin, dopamine, and for some,
oxytocin of another
At times, one would affiliate this
****** muscle configuration
to that of pentahydroxyhexanal (sugar)
and that was discombobulating

I could not understand how
a smile becomes sweet

and yet at that moment
when I saw you smile
I immediately understood
that science
science cannot explain this

This feeling I have when I see you

Someone turned off the moon
I searched high and low
Someone stole the moon out of the sky
How? is what I want to know

It was a funny feeling, to look up that night
To see the night light gone
A magic ladder that reached the heavens
The stars couldn't sing their song

Someone took the moon and ran
Snatched it without a sound
It was a very discombobulating night
Without the moon around

Here is a poem I composed for you,
Like the ripples in the laces when I tie my shoes.

Discombobulating bobbleheads,
The knobby knuckles,
The seat belt buckle.
Introspeculating lobby beds.
The bumps in the road were on my head,
Disconnecting me from the thread.

Have you ever been
pulled over by the culture
police?
I know this culture cop
who loves pulling people
over for self-expression.
He'll wait till you break
into color, and cut you
off at your most emphatic.
He'll ****, burp, scoff--
master craft a discombobulating
smack to your mouth.
He thinks most expression pins
you down to obviousness.
So by definition a lack of expression,
or stifled expression, means
you're not being obvious.
Therefore tolerable, but being obvious, or not being obvious is still
being, trying--expressly.
Watchdog of his own passive-agression, his cagey brooding activated by voices in excitation
of uniqueness.
He's living hard between the lines,
unable to read so to speak, as sing!
My mouthy mute carbon copy
of repression, I'm so sorry--truly.

There is something discombobulating about feeling a shudder and a tilt, the models in front of you apparently moving slowly sideways, as the stand with your show seat starts to move in circles.

At the same time, the models at the Céline show seemed to be going off in all directions. Popping in and out of the black holes of space were models - young or older - wearing a smart green masculine trouser suit, a striped shirt, a white belted raincoat, something furry and - unexpectedly - a tunic and trousers printed with black wheels and checks skittering before your eyes.

All this and the bodies and arms of shadowy people behind the plastic backdrop. I rushed backstage to try to make sense of the show chaos (sorry: artistic intrigue), but designer Phoebe Philo did not want to talk when I asked her the point of her dramatic presentation of her Autumn/Winter 2017 collection.

"Just ideas coming together with lots of ideas," said the designer. "Just lots and lots of ideas and how they impact each other."

Around me, Phoebe's team were hugging and sobbing and clutching each other, as if this show were their last. Overview notes provided by the public relations people seemed even more confusing, apart from telling me that the installation (that required more electric cables and wires than I have ever seen above a fashion runway) was by French artist Philippe Parreno.

''The Céline AW17 collection explored Phoebe Philo's storytelling design process of how a collection is created and the notion of how changes result in impact," read the statement. "Further, the collection relates closely to the interconnected nature of women's lives and possibilities for women."

Before I read this, I had thought of Phoebe as the English designer who has her children running around backstage and who made practical but classy clothes for today's woman. She threw into the mix a few charming pieces like the fluffy flat sandals that have been picked up by other designers across the world.

With all that on offer, why did the new Céline collection have to complicate things so much?

Take away the moving seats and impossible-to-follow criss-cross of the models and there was the Céline look that any woman would crave: the bold, floor-length tailored coat; a tuxedo with its hemline sweeping right down to the ankle. The tailoring looked bigger, oversized even, which is in tune with the Eighties-style square shoulders that we have seen elsewhere this season.

Phoebe seemed to be offering a hardened version of the serenity she once found in streamlined clothes. An example of the new severity would be a plain, long sleeved dress with a hemline at mid-calf. Its softer side was a blue shirt elongated to the ankle and worn with trousers.

Ultimately, Phoebe offers 21st century elegance with the smooth lines disrupted by a tangle of fringe at the hem or what appeared to be a big blanket over one arm.

I received an overall impression of longer - to the ankle - length, a sense of sobriety and a few fanciful things for evening. What I missed in the hurdy-gurdy of the presentation, is, as yet, unknown.

With exquisite workmanship and Victoriana melded with pop, Pierpaolo Piccioli had a new vision of romance for the digital era.

Prudishness and pop - can the two really meld together? Yes! If the Victorian-style cape is in a vivid, sugary, postmodern pink and the dress underneath a colourful geometric pattern, recalling the Memphis era.

At Valentino, the 1880s met the 1980s with sensational results as designer Pierpaolo Piccioli dismissed the feminist vibe that has reverberated through the Autumn/Winter 2017 season yet created a collection that was respectful to and joyful for, women.

Just looking at the designer's four moodboards was a history lesson, as Pierpaolo whizzed me through dark Victorian carved birds, bright Memphis furniture, coral with a religious connection to Medusa - so much from the past crammed into one collection.

Yet on the runway, the result was far from overloaded, as the history of coral was subsumed into the necklaces all the models wore and the deflated Victorian silhouette - long and high waisted, but slim where a crinoline once was, seemed perfectly acceptable as a romantic vision of the 21st century.

"I wanted to add deepness and romanticism to the modernity of the shapes, so these are absolutely items that you can wear separately - a white shirt or the skirt with your own sweater," said Pierpaolo. "I think fashion is made for dreams, but sometimes you want a dream that is daywear."

The Valentino studios are at the heart of the matter, apparently finding it as easy to toss off a tailored coat with a mid-calf hemline nudging Victoriana bootees, as it is to make a soft, light dress to flow underneath. The detail and delicacy of the dresses seemed like an extension of the haute couture, but the designer was eager to point out that the clothes came from the Italian factory dedicated to Valentino.

Whether it is so easy visually to mix a sorbet pink top with tiny ruffles down the arms that flowed into a cherry ripe panelled skirt, the result was surprisingly calm. Even the dresses patterned with Memphis pop blended in with the plainer, pleated versions. And just when you thought that the show's high romance was over blown, the designer would slip in a black top over a pair of sloppy velvet trousers or calm a Memphis patterned dress with a tailored coat. A severe black jacket could be worn with anything already in the closet from an LBD to blue jeans. Like the tailored coats, it kept ripe femininity in check.

"For me it is important to keep the lightness, otherwise it doesn’t feel confident and if you don’t feel that you don’t feel beautiful," said Pierpaolo. "I think if you feel confident you can even be able to show your sensibility and really feel stronger."

However you rated the clothes - too fancy, too froufrou, too historical - there is no denying that Pierpaolo has created a vision that is respectful to women and which makes them feel beautiful. In a churning political universe, Valentino offers a small, still voice of calm.

Demna Gvasalia revisited Cristóbal’s silhouettes with surges of modern colour, print and volume.

Balenciaga haute couture has been revived for the first time since Cristóbal himself closed the house nearly half a century ago. The last nine outfits shown by creative director Demna Gvasalia, on the huge carpet patterned with the word 'Balenciaga,' had their roots in the legacy of grandeur left by the noble Spanish-born couturier, who died in 1972.

Demna, who started in fashion by building street-smart, unadorned clothes, deliberately named just Vetements (the French word for clothing), has turned towards the grandeur of the original designs that are part of the Balenciaga legacy.

“I thought 100 years was a good reason to make couture available again,” said Demna backstage. “We're not going to do a couture line or show during couture, but these pieces will be made to order – basically for people who want to buy a couture dress from Balenciaga.”

The grand offerings – the polka dot dress with bustle back, the layers of dark pink taffeta, and a slim black gown, all with large back bows, were not the only historic links. The show opened with tailored coats which were worn with a drape over the left shoulder, reminiscent of the way that the models of an earlier era would walk with their heads up, shoulders rounded and stomachs sunk in.

“I studied how the pieces are worn and I found these images from old mood boards of Cristóbal where women are standing with their coats like this,” the designer explained. “The idea was to bring this kind of elegance, the gesture of wearing those pieces, but take it into a kind of cool and make it more modern. You can also wear it in a normal way, but it is constructed so that one part is larger and then you can also pin it up. And this is what you see basically in all these books.”

Demna's way of rethinking with his brain what he had seen with his eyes is exceptional – and the reason why he seems able to update the house as if he were growing new shoots from existing roots.

The arrival of vivid colour signalled a change of pace, as every figure stood out in the farthest reach of the enormous sports stadium. The hosiery especially perhaps, in grass green, and cut-away waistcoats like harnesses in pastel colours, took the image of Balenciaga back to the early days of Nicolas Ghesquière and his futuristic period at the house.

Demna is also drawn by the flowers that were a part of the Cristóbal Balenciaga look; by showing a patterned skirt with big, bold, brightly coloured sweaters, he gave print a modern feel.

The show was not perfect. Mini dresses in the floral patterns and bright hose looked out of place. But the overall effect was precise but theatrical, with the couture creating a dramatic ending.

Choosing Demna may have been a gamble by François-Henri Pinault, CEO of Kering, the luxury group that owns Balenciaga. But the designer has turned out to be able to answer fashion's most difficult challenge: finding the balance between old and new, tipped towards the future.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses

I am a pretender.

Looking through a window that is slightly open,
so that a breeze winds in
with gathered memories
of subliminal pain.

And I'm lost
partially wandering on a plot of unknown sand.
With the sun no longer reflecting,
refraction.
A reddening burn
and a quickened pulse
aching *****
and held breath.
I know where I am.

I am a fake.
But I cannot go through with it.
If I do not in the "real,"
why lie online?
Why hide myself
and view myself
criticize myself in comments with names that aren't mine,
not even who I want to be?

Why do I ignore myself,
and let fade into lingo.

Because I am human
and I don't want you to know me.
Even when I want you to feel,
I want you to share this moment with me.
And that is why
I post these
discombobulating pieces of no reckoning,
non-entertaing, ultimate **** "poems."
Because I want you to understand this
                                                                        me
in this instant.

Last night was hard for everyone, for all of us
The moon noticed your obvious absence and lit bright trying to trace you from every corner of  the universe
the stars were sad and they tried so hard to blink back their tears
even the nimbus clouds detected the heartbreaking melancholy
and tried to blanket them from the chilling cold of solitude
but the twinkling stars still struggled to peep through
the blanket cast between them and your absence
like little children afraid of the dark until the clouds gave up
for even they ,no matter how strong they pretended to be
the weight of despondence got the better of them
and they subsequently expressed their pain in burdened tears of rain
the roof tried to hold the tears from my unconscious sight
but my ears sadly caught the pattering sobs
darkness whispered some advise but my ears were too sad to hear
and my brain numbed by the scintillating thoughts about you
I tried to kick out the emptiness through listening to the radio
but my fingers were too frozen and weak to turn the ****
so I gave up and just sat quietly inside the net listening to a silence
whose eloquence was labyrinthine and discombobulating
because weaved within mosquitoes did their best to sing me a lullaby
but in anger I violently swatted as many and as many did die
it still was hell hot with my limpid Heart ice cold
yet I still hoped against all odds you would appear
I waited for you like Santa waiting for Christmas,
like anxious Jews waiting for the coming Messiah,
like the Mediterranean sea patiently waits for waters of the Nile,
like a Groom waits for his Bride as she walks across the isle,
I waited for you like a lass waiting for a Telenovela...
or a staunch catholic waiting for a positive eventuality to his Novena,
I waited like the minute hand waits for the second hand of the clock
like the dull pulse of the heart waits to happen after the loud one...
I waited for you like an insomniac waiting for sleep,
sadly sleep never came... so I gave up to wait for the next day
like the invisible sun through a night knowing in the dawn my voice
might reach you like beautiful rays and whisper
to the far that is near how I wish you were here
in a message right into your small pretty ears
I missed you like a baby misses its mother,desperately and in tears

Discombobulating eerie day  
left me asking on some matter.  
Like how the unreachable sky is so gray  
even if the day is really a flatter.  
  
Far-stretched lines I drew  
in a fine piece of silky flat.  
I smell the essence of tingling blue  
creeping on the edges where I sat.  
  
Far-flung hopes he seek  
with different approach and time.  
Ended well in a mountain peak  
gushing he came to be, he waited to climb.  
  
Discombobulating ambiance  
in the room somehow disturbs.  
Prepares the writer into dalliance  
so he forgotten all the verbs.

black crushed pupil tipping at its
  peak with a mild sheen
  discombobulating words
  to their own contained madnesses
  putting an apostrophe
  on everything
  it lays sight on

  a salvage of disrupted vision
  wrings true wind blowing through
  the white steel of dangerous contraption
  in the hand and takes to leaping
  of faith, a restless voyage:

  a volute image lightheaded
  still with the passing to and from—
  nomadic breath still splendidly
  penetrating through all sound
   and silence and words
    like fire wily without intent,
      the moon. only there. without a name.

it wasn't writer's block, i decided,
not even my lack of ideas can
steer me away from producing
something, anything
my skill to make sense
of everything through written texts
that even the most discombobulating
thoughts and emotions and anxiety
has almost never failed to be presented
out for me, like my fingers
have their minds of their own

and i'm terrified that if i write
it'll make it jarringly clear
that what i felt
three years ago
are resurfacing again,
just when I finally thought I'm okay

but my god,
my fingers
just can't stop writing

Journey…by Jessie 11/05

Entangled emotions, ball of string
End, connected to the beginning
Knots throughout
Super highway of events; create the maze of discombobulating
Weaving in and out of it’s self; until there is no trace of either end
One day I will attempt to unravel this sphere of confusion
This mass of braded calamities and happenstances  
Then I will lay the line with all of its imperfections and knotted recollections
Straight and true as any crimp line can look
Attempting to move forward… I walk the line back
One step at a time
Two steps in
I look at the line
My eyes follow the thin strand as it leads away
Sharpen clarity no more as it fades into the distance
Paralyzed to move
Fearful of what transgressions may be found
Quickened pulse, courage summoned
One more step to truth
One more step to reconciliation
One more step to peace
Hardest journey taken
Deep within one’s self
Recoiled line, remembers shape
Journey never done

im so tired of reading bad poetry worn out cliches with rhymes that doesnt remotely match meters that just drop off out of nowhere leaving you wondering why it was written at all the me me me i i i you dont understand what ive been through as if Your the only one who has had trauma themes that do Not make A lick of sense whatsoever or the ones where how many times can you say the same **** thing over and over and over again its just too long then there's the hole misspelling of words where the Writer is either to frikken lazy to proof read or just trying to be and and i use this word loosely creative poor grammar with no punctuation or capitalisation leaving you out to figure what the hell is actually meant and let us not forget the egregious use of big words discombobulating the reader in an inefficacious attempt to impress and by the way shakespeare is dead so the thee thus thou shant be missed there are a few presumed outcomes of you reading this either a comment below detailing your egotistical outrage of what has been written with what i am sure is to be a riveting display of your distain with private conversations with others on the pompous *** who wrote it and how you gave him a piece of your mind and in what manner you told him or a passive aggressive poem written in a not so discreet manner in which you will feel better about yourself but all the while thinking you should have said more then there is the ones that in their im not like that attitude will refrain from any discussion on the matter so as to prove a point as what has been said will stick in their craw for quite some time for those who have continued reading i would like to thank you for your time and let it be known that this piece has been penned deliberately so as the aforementioned statements concerning poetry are actually in fact observations of my own written works as many of you know as writers we are our own worse critics and with that being said if a poem is to incite emotions then i do believe it has done just that

"Are you sure, my QUEEN, that you want to leave your throne?
Enter the prism of your mother's womb;
Raise your familial ghosts from their tomb;
Absorb their burden, make it your blood;
Risk Drowning in the waters of their emotional flood;
And incarnate as fragile flesh and bone.

Are you sure that is truly what you want, my QUEEN?
You will be wrapped in many layers of confusion....
Discombobulating illusion.

Your family will deny that which you speak,
To the point you begin to think
You do not know
That which you know;
They will poison you with the venom of condition;
Wrap you in a web of perdition;
Place upon you a veil as if it a mink;
And confine you to a future outlook that is bleak.

They will attempt to bring you to their level;
Break you to release your inner devil;
Pierce your armored mettle;
So with them you will settle;
And remain in the torture temple.

They will attempt to take you out by your knees;
Split your psyche in six degrees;
Cause you pain so overwhelmingly monstrous,
That your soul will twists in relentless...
Disastrous....
Chaos;
And disregard in disdain your mercy pleas,
As they do what they please.

You will engage in internal battle;
Cast upon yourself a dark night of your soul,
Where for yourself you be neither friend nor foe;
But instead consume yourself as if you are a jackal
Devouring a herd of cattle.

Are you sure you want to enter the prism of your mother's womb;
Live within the confines of your mother's ancestral house;
Where you will be sold as a slave to a man addressed as spouse;
And be considered to have value less than that of a mouse?

Are you sure you want to do this and risk losing yourself?"

Having heard enough of the gatekeeper's incessant rant;
The queen rose up from her throne, walked up to mirror;
Confidently adjusted it's unappealing slant
As if she nothing to fear;
Glanced her reflection dead in the eye;
And spoke in a tone the gatekeeper could not deny.

"Step aside gatekeeper,
You are merely my own reflection
Playing a recording from my fear collection,
Meant to cause me anxiety in distraction
And keep me in my place.

My mother's prism
Is no different than the mind prison
I currently face.
It is not of my benefit to participate in denials race.

I cannot avoid that which made me.
I cannot avoid being like she;
For she is within me as me;
and so is everything in the projection I see.

There is no one to fear but me,
For I am the only monster that can annihilate that which I be.

To truly heal my spirit
I must allow myself to see the wound of my fragile bone,
Under the roof of my ancestral home,
So I may within myself alter it's tortured tone
From one of a fleeing, to one of a freeing lyric.

If I do not risk losing myself, to save myself,
Then I have already lost myself.

Now step aside gatekeeper and let me cross the gate,
Before it is to late.

Let me cross the gate before self-annihilation be my fate."
--Marie Moldovan  ©️ 2020

Working I hear,
"If I knew then, what I know now"
Women were talking near.

I continued to work,
Thought 'wow'
What if I did know more in the past.
Surely I wouldn't ever fall last.

But the last place offers the most room to grow,
Would life be so much better in 1st place?
I know 'no'.

The compromise of pain and gain,
The character growth of which my Dad so highly spoke,
And for the longest time I thought a joke.

A joke it was not.

A lady said something that caught my ear,
Made me wonder if I'd be better off here, or in a past with what I know currently,
And to answer this question accordingly I wish for so fervently.

My answer to such a discombobulating query was this.
This not as a solution, but an explored response.

I answer not today, nor tomorrow,
But yesterday my answer shall lay,
And if that makes sense not, then hey,
Ask me on a yesterday when I already know for today.

Sitting, watching, waiting,
the waves roll by
But a haze in the sky,
bags like jellyfish, patches like whales,
accumulating, discombobulating,
But a haze in the sky,
choking, killing,
maiming the sea,
slaughtering by the dozens,
But a haze in the sky,
simple to do,
hard to fix,
but a mere crew
could do the tricks,
But a haze in the sky,
Something, I fear,
could **** the earth,
the tumbling mirth,
and all that is here,
Something, I fear,

Alas,
But a haze in the sky

primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis
despite taking  Glycopyrrolate
2 MG Tablet three times daily.

Aforementioned physiological malady
the bane worse than death
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably, and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder
and aggravated, jump/kickstarted, triggered...,
when body electric
of mine experiences duress.

Tis no fun unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)

mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arm's length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as

itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.
Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)

ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen prescription medications.

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
climate controlled when weather
hazy, hot and humid
at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these stubby
five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings

severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent

to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.

primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis
despite taking  Glycopyrrolate
2 MG  Tablet three times daily.

Aforementioned physiological malady
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably, and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder.

Tis no fun unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)

mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arms' length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as

itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.
Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)

ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen prescription medications.

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
climate controlled when weather
hazy, hot and humid
at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these stubby
five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings

severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent

to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.

i, havE..sOme diffiCulty
with senten-
ce
structure an"d./
pUNCtuation*""!
Thrutched up with
LanGuage////>
whIcH iS mos''t
DiscombobulatinG?<
And also
quitE
KerfufFling!!!"
          Especially
When my Words
fallllll......
D
O
W
N
into;;;;;"'
            b i t s and!
p i e c e     s'
This is when i know no nows
And no longer know
What the onus is with nous
Crag swaggering on the rocks
With my words
Abseiling
Into mountainous
Momentous
Moments!

by Jemia

he knows it as something emotions

are herded into--like savage first contact.

that blurs to protect identity, blocky

skintones discombobulating

b movie shame.

highjacked without being plastered

everywhere.

or the naked motions that play catch-up

behind glass shower doors, as if wrestling

with a dagger.

not necessarily protecting identity--but

what comes after it.

much like initial snow that stalls right

above the ground--for an entire winter.

to be walked through with the fragile

care of floating styrofoam.

so gravity can anticipate itself & maybe

understand.

I dream of wandering
Grab me by the mind
Dream of my body and imprint my soul
Apart from the lingering flickering light
Of the moonlit sonatas and sunny winters, among chartreuse ruins
Pale as the moonlight and deafening thunder-like overtures of Beethoven's oeuvre
I dearly love your indecision about the disease and minor achievements
Minor and major Fortuna, and capricious discombobulating spirits of the wild, that I can affix
My mind on the twinkling stars and flickering lights
A thousand lives later, I might remember looking down on yonder

not one drop of sweat
(especially on hot humid and hazy days)
less than a gallon
exudes forth from my pores
but nevertheless
I can single handedly manage...
primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis.

Aforementioned physiological malady
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably,
and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with
schizoid personality disorder.

Tis no fun when unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)
mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arm's length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as
itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.

Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)
ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen
plus three prescription medications,
one of which includes glycopyrrolate
typically one of the first treatments
for craniofacial hyperhidrosis
(excessive sweating of the face and head)
and the second or third treatment
for palmar, plantar, or axillary hyperhidrosis
(excessive sweating of the palms,
soles, and armpits).

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
then (at the initial
crafting of bulk of this poem)
climate controlled at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these
five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings
severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent
to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.

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
forever everywhere, 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.
You gave me so much pain and pleasure through your art,
that grew so deep into your soul and your body that you now embody rap.
And I want to thank you accordingly,
repay you with both sides of the same coin,
with the range of reflections from hilarious rage to evil love.
Enjoy.


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,
especially if you wrote back.
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 ****?
Well, I guess, everyone has a story about which nobody gives a ****.
Should you still dare read it now,
make sure there's no one around
to wipe your *** and polish your crown.
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.
It may get complicated.
But I hope you'll understand it.
You can do it. I believe in you.
Now, let's see how the magic works.
Are you ready, big fat rap star boy,
still sick slim shady?
No, actually, the real question now is,
am I ready to mess with the real Slim Shady?
Wow! That's unheard of and a lil’ intimidatin’, to be honest.
So be that as it may, we shall see.
I guess, it depends on how deep
we can take this… whatever it is.
Anyways, it won't hurt him.
I promise.


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.
But I do my best not to be.
I do all I can.
It doesn't help.
I know it's bad for my head.
It's unhealthy.
Yet, I can't help it.
Dang! I don’t understand it
and hate to admit
that it's a nasty, hot pleasure and pain
to be your stan.
Still, I can't stand the idea that I can't leave ya,
no matter how hard I try.
As always, what I resist persists.
And I don't know why.
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 just meditate and exercise
in a silent harbor of a life-saving rehab
after a highly enlightening, heart-warming, emotional 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.
Man, you've been high so many times
that you forgot how to come down.
An addict turned into a drug,
creating literally a dope art,
even if it's ironically about recovery.
But the only difference is that now you are your own god.
While your bible is a dictionary,
which 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,
for I don't wanna be a part of your harem,
like you got no one better to do or destroy.
Oy oy oy, my bad, are you a nice, coy boy.
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, trapped by an artificial but appealing rap decoy,
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.
Verbiage, verboseness, verbosity, verbosis
to show all the ******* who here the boss is,
rhyming circumlocution,
the freedom-of-speech revolution,
pleonasm,
the pleasant to ears associative redundancy of a word chasm.
It tastes so good,
even if it's a rhymeless wormy orange fruit
I wouldn't risk foraging for food,
though, delicious till the very last bite
of the canned worm cake
on a golden wordish dish
with a red hot cherry on top that charms
as usual with the illusion of might to hold the mic
and awards with a cerebral ******.
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 street slim slam poetry about how Shady did it,
hidden in your diabolically crazy schemes,
arising from infuriating poverty,
just ‘cause that's how real this **** feels.
Well, duh. That 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, while subliminally
without preliminary tenderness or warnings,
like a precious princess
with a priceless soul of a dainty deity
and a diety dandy 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,
like self-awareness,
for I am now the feeling,
one, alone,
at the same time, not at home.
There is, in fact, no me at all
or no meaning for all
beside the one that has found you.
It's your life, where you are free to move on.
I call it destiny.
Well, then let it be.
And who doesn't agree
can kiss the goddess’s *** for free.
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.
You don't want it to stop with the arousing desire to seize it, capture, shoot or record.
God, would I give it all to you,
if I were this kind of bird too.
However, 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 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?
I guess I'm not talented enough to be brief.
Not even close.
On the other hand, I prefer my ****** to never end
and to spread the ecstatic light of my love as far as possible.
My thoughts are just too concentrated
and has to be diluted with water to be baked as waffles.
In addition, God opened my skull
and made scrambled eggs of my brains
to be served with trifles.
What a savory course, delectable meal,
too enlightening, delightful, and intellectual even for me.
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.
Are there other realities?
Do they really exist?
Any alternative reality proves that this one isn’t real.
And when you are in an alternate reality, you feel this.
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 flimsy raft in the sea,
that goes with the flow to stay afloat.
Yet, simultaneously, I gotta direct it somehow to where I need to be,
approach the destination of my destiny.
But now it's still a crass lump of sugar, slowly melting,
being imminently washed away by water in raccoon's paws,
slipping through fingers words,
filled with the meaning,
leaving me with an inexplicable feeling,
the majestic, magical sense in the system of the pure mind, filled with glow,
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 ****,
messy, ***** missy,
*****.
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.
Good God, what's the big deal?
You have got to be kidding me.
Or are you really some kind of ******, ***** or a imbecile?
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,
albeit a little offbeat.
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 good doctor for the right diagnosis, I suppose,
in case I was misdiagnosed.
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 ******
for an oxymoronic, ironic neurotic,
trying to find the balance
between extremes in a sparkly dance
of a whimsical weasel, hopping in front of a rabbit,
distracted by hypnotizing patterns.
I must go higher than that
from the basement,
where I muss thoughts in my messy head,
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.
I don't condone a ***** brain ****
that's gonna blow up with an aggressive verbal *****,
surfeited with angry testosterone.
Come on, man, at least, please, put on a ******.
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 of a strict mother,
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.
Experienced as you might be,
you can't just **** it off.
It chases your graphomaniacal, necrophilic, cannibalic, diabolic kamikaze’s dead ***, regardless of your sins.
I get it. You don't like to look like a fool.
And love does make you feel stupid and look pretty foolish, for sure.
It turns you into a silly, paranoid idiot,
who smiles but can't let go of the thought
that he might need an antidote.
You feel dumbfounded, stupefied, surprised, and at the same time stressed,
as if you have a finger in your ***.
“Am I having a panic attack?
*******! What the ****?”
How does it make you feel weak,
when it's supposed to make you strong?
Maybe the angle from which you look at it
is wrong.
I, on the other hand, can't help following this awesome feeling.
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!
Yeah, y’all throw your stones and torches,
pitchfork me and scorch me.
Burn the witch, dying for love and your sins,
who deserves your tortures.
Wait, *******!
Are you really gonna burn me?
****, **** this planet!
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.
I know that I know nothing
and no one can know everything.
But everyone can go **** themselves
and be self-sufficient.
Of that I'm sure.
Maybe we should shift the perspective,
find the right or better point of view,
and change the attitude?
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 be grateful for this humorous energy, even when it's aimed at you.
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 big fat hungry troll,
sitting with his smart ***
on the fence of a deep defense,
which is the best as a good offense.
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?
Don't get me wrong.
I hope you don't think I envy you.
With my bird-watching skills,
I coulda been an ornithologist by now,
just so you know.
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, despite 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?
We need virtual evil
to keep the virtuous Utopia ideal
and find the balance between ‘em.
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.
Pierce the ******.
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.
Hey, **!
Not with a pitchfork, though.
What the ****, bro?
Easy. Yo, chill, man, will ya?
Why did you bring that thing, huh?
What, you're Aquaman,
******* Poseidon?
For real? Ha-ha.
Seriously, what for?
Does it make you drown faster
or give you the superpower of niceness?
No?
Well, feel the kick and fly, then.
Ah, self-defense.
Okay, then let's dance.
Come on, man, all jokes aside,
I could expect anything from you,
like a rifle, knife, or a sword.
Yet, you brought that?
I thought, most of all, you preferred a chainsaw.
****, so I guess now I can't expect you to be nice
to my wise ***. I'm ****** anywise.
And yo’ **** will be engulfed by all my holes.
Sorry for the ***** metaphor.
I'm straightforward like that
and write honestly, like a *****.
Oh, well, as well as you, so
don't mind my cussing,
'cause I like to sound beautifully disgusting.
Well, you know.
I just love this lingo vocabulary, vernacular architecture of slang,
cuz I was raised among gangsters and thieves
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.
Yet, it's hard to be hot,
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,
like an ornithologist loves all the birds.
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.
I attire profanity in rhyme to refine the bad with the beauty of my mind.
And you can criticize it as much as you like, *******.
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.
Who said life was 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,
wacky soul-’n’-mind-******* ******,
self-absorbed superstar, wanksta-poet,
demure poser
composing your mind,
careless about mine,
soul-exhibitionistic imposer.
If I may ask,
are you comfortable with your ******* in your ***?
I think, 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,
the best representative of hip-hop,
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.
What a shame.
Shady Jesus Christ was killed once again.
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 dreamy boy with a beard, trimmed slim,
resembling a promiscuous lady, wild jade, luscious *****, succulent vamp
with a wise *** and an unshaved ******
with the price tag of an arm and a leg,
flashing noble knights in shining armor,
lascivious transgenders, grafs ****-you-offs,
all kinds of ****, ******* midgets and ***** dwarves.
They are just looking for some nookie with a ******, for sure,
a ***** they can treat like ****,
**** a hot dame for a dime.
And now that your dream came true,
and you are the ****,
they all can eat you and die.
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.
Why?
Is your self-esteem extremely high?
No limits, huh?
What, you a god?
Duh.
Big deal, *****, so am I.
Ha-ha. See how you crack me up?
God, are you so funny and smart,
just walk and emit laughing but lethally poisonous gas,
cracking out of your cranky wise ***.
Dude, you are hilarious
and obviously wise enough to improvise with the smartest smart-*** rhymes in yo' freestyle,
the best emcee so everyone can see
the master of controversy,
the main character and the actor in one,
a white-trash rapper, American dream *******,
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, obscene jokes, spiced with ******* slurs
till they don't even notice how they're being laid already and treated as they all deserve, as ******* ******* hos.
By the way, grandpa, how's your sight, sugar level, and blood pressure?
Must be not that bad, since you eat beats.
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!
Shoot! 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.
Man, even your abdomen's still impressive
for someone who used to be obese,
well, in fact, maybe just a little bit fat,
when you meditated and self-medicated your body with mom's spaghetti,
while being a depressed mess.
So you must have done hundreds of sets of fifty press reps,
reciting yo' baddest raps
mind-blowingly fast,
pretending to be a badass
so you could run thousands of eighth miles
in his shoes to look like you look now.
Sorry for my straightforward poetry.
But that's what I love to do the most,
although sometimes I can't control it,
the mean, itchy urge to troll someone.
I know, I act like an immature clown.
I guess, Shady is in everyone,
like God lives in us
along with our angels and demons,
a lost soul of a prodigal son,
created and forsaken by the Father
in the name of the Holy Spirit
for him to be found and saved by himself in the idea,
made up for believing.
Thus, two become one,
I mean two in one,
one, embedded into the other one,
forming a holy *******.
Amen.
I mean it.
And I'm in, too.
Wait. Why am I in it?
Love the game?
Why are we doing this, again?
Right, 'cause we have no choice.
Or I just like to think so.
****, 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
or rather a rap novel
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?
What's the matter?
You don't like to be dissed?
‘Cause this ugly thing I just did
now I hope you didn't read.
Do tell me more about this.
All jokes aside, don't be mad at me, please.
Consider it my dissertation on the dark shady matter,
not sophisticated enough, maybe
to be philosophically labelled.
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 *****,
full of yourself, but still hungry.
Yeah, you go and hate that *****, fight it,
'cause you can't satisfy it.
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.
Dang!
See ya in hell.
Bang!
Booyaka! The *******'s killed by his ******* nuts stalker.
The Grim Reaper's buried under the tree of poetry,
which has grown right through this poem, his tombstone.
We'll see what I can reap out of this rap goats’ cemetery,
except for what I've already been bestowed upon
and, in fact, have sown.
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.
Ah, whatever.
I've already sewn the whole reality out of trivialities
and wove the underwear out of clichés for you to wear on the stage.
Don't wanna wear it?
Really? All right.
What's the matter?
Stage fright?
Just kidding.
I know you can make a fool of yourself
and (smile) laugh your *** off on the inside.
Shoot!
Here comes the lunatic’s cadaver.
Don't worry, I'll resurrect you
after you've got dissected.
Abracadabra.
See? It wasn't that bad.
You're not really dead,
like your mom or your dad.
Ok, I won't dramatize, or I may get traumatized.
My bad. I apologize.
Let's call it even
or love, even if it's evil.
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,
while 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 either way,
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.
So, good luck with that,
break a leg.
Oh, what the hell,
break the whole neck.
Make me repent the sins of my pen
that inks more now about the future
than I think about the past.
Give me your masterpiece.
Show me your master class.
It sounds good, ain't it?
Feels good too, *******,
‘cause this kinda martial art matters,
especially when you know what to do with all this talent.
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.
(Although, 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.
When you make jokes to yourself in your songs,
aren't you glad when someone believes you and sings along?
Gods exist as long as we believe in 'em.
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?
Anyhoo, 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.
They dis you but have to respect you,
‘cause deep down they are afraid of you.
And you love your haters too
'cause you feed on your enemies' energy.
A feud with your foes you treat like hoes with irreparable flaws is the fiery fuel for you.
They made you too.
You slam ‘em with your rhymes, hit ‘em with your bars
about slaughtering ‘em with a chainsaw and the whole range of guns.
You love them masochistic ******* hard,
like you've been loved by God.
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."
Yeah, right, I know.
Again, I write like a *****,
incapable of controlling the ****** energy,
trolling her own insatiable libido.
Oh, Gee! **** this **** destructive love,
******* me over again,
demolishing everything on her way.
I can't feed her.
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.
While 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.
You don't understand anything in this world.
And laughter is a normal reaction to being overwhelmed with awe.
When you look at yourself from afar
and laugh at your stupidity,
you free yourself from it and your ego
and become a self-sufficient god,
who doesn't look for the meaning,
for he's already been found.
This world is magical, and you are magic and a magician.
To see it, just open your mind.
You must know by now,
as various fairy tales like life and comics show,
that while there's always a reason for evil,
the true power is love.


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.
As if I'm a little girl,
born during a war,
and while hiding from the Soviet Union among the Vietcong,
was killed by the American bomb.
Or should I pick a side
find a lesser evil? Why?
Not to die today? Escape endless wars
between heaven and earth?
Why two evils?
Why not funny and spiritual?
There is no good or bad,
only happy and miserable.
Don't make it worse.


The word owns you

Anyhow, 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 calm, unbiased, meticulous scientist,
doing research in silence,
slicing and dicing a frog.
And the more he analyzes this madness,
the more ****** up he becomes,
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.
Well, I suppose, two heads are better than one
because you can perform an experiment on one of them.
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, sullen, depressed, enraged, silent teenager deep inside
we want to protect by creating a strong dark guardian angel
for our inner child to grow up.
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 a wrong person.
Unlike all miserable people,
I don't want to be miserable like you.
But 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,
get into your mouth in the form of a ****,
and come into your brain
so deep that it makes you addicted to this game.
And you play it again and again
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.
Still, it's not just black and white.
Between them is a rainbow.
**** 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.
Keep pushing the limits
till you rocket through the roof of the Empire State Building,
where now only sky's the limit
in the endless space of your heavy mind,
filled with heavenly, godly light
I know you like this feeling
of being godlike.
You've really got the power when you hold a mic.
Never give in, toy soldier, fighting monsters.
Keep cracking nuts and silly jokes.
Don't be too melodramatic.
You're not a lonely Captain Obvious
on his enormous ship,
drowning in his ****.
You're not a lost cause.
Please, don't say that.
I'm sure it's not that bad.
At least it's better than it was
if you don't concentrate on what you've lost,
'cause there is always pros and cons,
which is characteristic of controversial, dualistic worlds.
As I’ve already told ya,
I want you to be happy.
We’ll go together through your highs and lows.
Although we all are one in this world, but alone in our lives,
you don't have to be alone this time.
You don't have to be strong all the time.
I'll be with you till the day I die.
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.
I am grateful for the reality I'm in.
And the creator is glad
‘cause he feels it as well and thanks me back.
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,
treat me accordingly,
but 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.
See, every time I open my mouth
some stupid **** may come out.
So don't be too shy to shut me up.
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 the mental state of my “brilliant brain”
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.
Yeah, I may sound too controversial.
But you know that people can be deep like oceans
so we could drown in each other, discovering ourselves through our deep dope emotions,
hearing voices from the depth of our cosmic consciousness,
reflecting as the starlight off water.


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.
Otherwise, it may swell,
rise to a monstrous size,
get too rad, lit, and wet.
Well, sir Raps-a-lot,
you taught me well
how to reach new heights.
I appreciate that,
thanks a lot.
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.
I'm just trying to be as candid as I can.
You don't want me to lie to you, do you?
If so, I promise to be always honest.
And to be frank, I couldn't have lied even if I tried.
I can't hide what I got on my mind
because the feeling is I.
Believe me, 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
in my mind, embodied in my body.
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.
While my hobby is you,
my hubby and you are actually alike,
have a lot in common.
He's also got father issues.
He's also a poet and a musician.
But 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 lil’ 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 if 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.)
Well, well, well, my hobby’s obviously also rap.
Yep... yeppity, yep, yep, yep.
Even so, 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, annoying like ****** 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 ******* ******,
drowning on his feeble craft in the rough sea of evil love.
Yeah, I know that my poem is a drug,
cruising in your vessels,
with verses, soaked in dope
so you could get off.
That's why 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,
as you are already self-sufficient.
Be happy if you want, trust me.
You've got the power,
just unleash it.
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.
While 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.
I ain't saying that I know you.
I'm just saying it seems to be true.
While in reality, I actually don't give a **** about you,
just like you do.
But a part of me will always be curious about you
and wouldn't mind if you got to know me too.
I hope you don't see me as an impeding, 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,
unless maybe a penfriend.
But I know that it all is just 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.
Please, don't get mad or upset about anything I have said.
I just needed to clean out my closet,
close it and try to forget.
Well, you know more than me about that.
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,
the successful American dream embodiment.
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
(in my defense, I was high most of the time),
but the only important and sane one is this.
Dude, it's my “ode”, 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, 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.
Well, maybe not the whole time.
At least I had fun.
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.