From an ornate podium
the orator spoke words--
..extraordinarily elaborate ones..
as if,
as if

But those who know..
we who have  laid low,
down in to the trenches
as grunts, both  outside
and inside  

    of the wire..

Those who have  quietly
done their legwork..
who have accepted their
difficult fate  as that   borne  of
and in to,  a training..  an equipping;
lay low,
lay low

.   .   .   .  

The throngs
at the foot of the podium--
mesmerized by their own  need
to be mesmerized,  never even
   noticed the children
who  in their innocence,  peered
out from under the crowd's legs

to better see the 'magnificent' podium..

The oldest of which, ran back to trenches
trying to describe what they saw.
Two of the quiet, unassuming-ones
made their way back to the podium,  
and in blocking out the orator's voice,
(which  to the  knowing,
was  as that of a clanging bell..)

Now observed up close, the inner-workings
of the elaborate podium
and sat in  wonder of its expenditures--
wrapped around such  slipshod,   weak
and hastily assembled framework..

And in having become interested in the
structure's groundedness to what one
would hope would be  a solid-built
foundation, placed onto solid, earthen ground
They instead gasped as they saw its
legs floating upon nothing..

"What the **** is holding this thing up..?"

War-trained and battle-hardened,
they remembered their superiors speaking
in hushed tones that even ******, with all
of his blowhard oratorical *******,   at least

had a semblance of the podium's fastenings..

Albeit, partially assembled by our own country's
stupidity within certain provisions brought forth
in the Treaty of Versailles,

   but this
   but this;

This oratorical misleading of the broken-ones
this empty illusion of a presentation,  borne
not  from a suffering  leading to true regeneration
but instead, a distractive short-cut into the Realms;
   This counterfeit substance..
as if borne in power,    as if..  as if.

    .. But the realms.. they know

It is only those down here on earth,  spirit
cloaked within the deceptive misgivings
of the flesh-- so aching to establish itself
apart  from the necessary legwork needed
to humbly become a part of Stream's flow:
(borne,  solely from the inner Wellspring--  deep
within the bowels of Love's True Ache)..


It is here.. on earth..  that you will find
the reward you seek..  oh wondrous orator,
oh magnificent 'smither' of fine words..

   Your podium, a whitewashed soapbox
   floating upon nothing..


--And therefore meaning   nothing
within the Substance-Based parameters  
    of the Realms.

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
you can find him out at night!

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
when the stars are full and bright!

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
see the snow out on the ground?

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
dancing in the snowflakes' falling sound?

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
The leaves they are attractive, they shimmer in the night...

...like the snowfall, so distractive, a twisting shiny sickness is a tasty sight,
though the berries not delicious their taste is only acrid, and hiding a secret acid, yet pungent, smelling right?

The bush's thorns they punish those who root among the branches while the sprite he dances in-between the flashes of pain and belly aches the acid courses through one’s veins and the evil sprite it smiles knowing well where its source of nutrient for the winter has died and felled!

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf, of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush; but only at night…

Roadways have flayed greyed arteries
Into the greenaries of the land.
A kingdom of metallic cities,
An empire built upon shifting sands.

And bombs stain the badlands
In dusty countries far ashore.
It is a time for distractive actions
And a constant state of war.

But what a dull reality!
To focus on the undulations,
The consequences of being free,
The purge of the weaker nations.

For life can be easy
If you live through glossy pages.
The life and lies of a celebrity;
The superficial ages.

A sorry state for families
Who talk only about the weather
And other temporal pleasantries,
On their proud suites made of leather.

Oh, what a poor affair!
Caring more for the clouds above,
Than the climates of our world-weary hearts,
and for all the ones we love.

And lo, we're careless and carefree
for all that does not appear on screen.
They'd gush over some royal baby,
But not pine over the unseen.

Our modern sicknesses
Are conjured and conceited too.
For what value is there in compassion,
If oneself is feeling blue?

Does charity begin at home?
You once said it does nothing at all.
But is home solely what you own,
In a world so close and so small?

These questions are silent,
But they are asked in the thousands.
By all those that are used to deaf ears,
Across all oceans and lands.

To the soft-hearted I call thee,
To not be so stilled and so dampened.
By the weight of the majority,
the crowds of the minds unopened.

And to myself I hope,
That we shall meet dear reader.
Above your recitation of my words,
To something more real,
To something much clearer.

how many decimal points would it take to create
                                                                ­a 2 = 2 scenario?
maybe the cultured swine in me asks such
questions, or perhaps i don't have
enough practical, matrimonial and
heterosexual worries in my life to ask
such a question in the first place?
would it take 2 = 2.00000000000000002?
how many denials
             then?
       maybe i'm asking a question like this
to start trending a nuanced vogue
amidst
            the most discriminated form of
humanity, namely white heterosexual men?
hmm... perhaps.
      last night i watched a movie adaptation
of a video game: can i just say that
Mario Bros. worked, but
the intricacy of game becoming movie can
only work when you get sore thumbs...
can these people: who play or design such games
ever write a novel? nearing two hours into
the movie and i was chanting with a variety
of onomatopoeias a zombie apocalypse
best summarised by the words: agony drool...
well d'uh.. e ragrammaton is a sneaky ******,
pops up everywhere in language,
      while looking for the post-Heraclitean logos
within the framework of phonos
  i came across the surd dynamic of four:
well, three, the H-twins and the trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, leaving Y as the tangen
and a focal point of convergence...
    and Jesus paid no respect the name -
i could tattoo pharisee on my *** and burp
    through it... there, four prime surds...
in Sanskrit: dhaal... you sort of jump over the h
and add a macron: dāl... but let's face it:
the aesthetic is sorta missing, what you hear
and what you see are cued combatants...
              why am i writing this? i just received
Monday's newspaper... could i be less
reactionary about the world inviting itself into
my pleb-bound world? can someone please
usher these gnats from my halo?
no... well... hence the reaction.
          and so much more vitality comes from
self-loathing than from self-love...
   life is more colourful, and so much less
lies-fudge-packed-between-the-sardines-to-an-ideology...
     catch you on a Friday night when it's not
so pristine? sure thing babe... sure thing my
tweaser plucked runny-mascara piglet...
we'll be snorkelling in mud by then.
could anyone think of a reason of mixing mayonnaise
with horseradish?
          but seriously... when did people forget
the concept of polyphony that Bach (ich?
see, the phonos already retracts the polygamy
shared by the same spelling) - say chequers and
cheese in german... chaka demus & pliers
and venting out a tension in the Caribbean quarter
of London, postscript August:
and it always rains... rains daggers and lip-kissing
anger of: ******, not enough scotch-**** chillies.
      and that's saying enough before Shaggy Dry Fuss
came on the scene with: wozzin' me.
   the real whizz kid right there... question is:
alter Paris? Jim Morrison's grave is taller than the Eiffel,
well, all the bums go there and steal the naive
    groupies leaving bottles of wine and joints at
the grave... but yeah... they called it cut-up post-Tzara
with Burroughs,     a zillion things that crept up on me
while i wasn't thinking about Juliet...
                and the reality of a shopping spree,
and all the cliches imaginable...
        perhaps truths too...
                    but even the writing said it was originally
theirs... Bach was already prescribing polyphony...
        let's say multilayered convo....
                       let's say: vogue of millennials'
distractive tendency... and that's so so so much clearer
than what poetry can become:
       a deaf man's tapping to a jazzy / hip-hop beat...
   a tenacious d's   one note song: ******* too,
rhyme... grr...         why do people write poetry as
if they're talking to Muhammad's Aisha prior to
skinning the grape?
                    why don't they talk to poetry as they might
talk to a *******?
                     who are "they" (yes, not paranoid, just
an obscurity with no vectors or index pointy pointy
*******
           the oyster)
                              which brings me to the controversy...
do you think rapists are masochists? or sado-masochists?
there was me on a date, i brought the movie and she
brought the bed and dinner...
                     see, i ask because something odd happened...
first of all was the Victorian practice of *******
under the bed-sheets rather than on top and all bulges
in full view like serpentine lizards (fat? i tend to
see it as seafood)...   yeah... but in the brothel
she would fake arousal for my eyes to see and slobber
her oyster in butter... or l'oreal cream...
   fair enough... but i'm wondering: this one time
she felt so so guilty after getting a genuine ****** on
the job... obviously that's hard... but on this one
authentic anglo-saxon date i got ****** by a dry ****...
       so either rapists are self-endorsing masochists
and all the women they **** have dry ***** due
to fear... or... yeah, that glistening or...
             is this a prescription piece? no, i'm just curious
why prostitutes smother their foreskins with
beauty cream so it doesn't hurt, and this one
pristine puritan babe was all Saharan pouch deepfryer...
                which is why i'm wondering...
   if a ******* can cream-up, and a good upstanding
girl with a decent job in a grammar school with
free accommodation on site can't....
                       you might as well shove your prometheus
        into a tube consisting of sandpaper.
                                         some also call it
    scratching your 5 o'clock shadow.

Conception occurred when you realised your dream,
Its now living in you,you carry it.
Carry it well and carefully.
Keep it away from toxins that come through distractive vices,
Before success is delivered,
Labour must be undergone,the labour is the road through which winners must pass.. Its the tests of strength and character. Its the hard learnt lessons.Its the purifying furnace.
It only burns,never kills.Might leave scars but that's good because every scar you earn is a tattoo for your history.

Colargrins

I pull daggers from my sinking heart, liquefy blades, and splash back in spades upon the staggering departure of my starts.

Ill finish even with a diminished will.

Im not always first, but **** it in the last minute in nervous fidgeting of my reality rippling through residual hauntings of the feel of the feeling of your reeling in the excitement.

Dauntingly, flaunting, the alarming charm of tongue, eniticing the romantic knifing of lungs, in spent breaths, confessed of the love of truth.

Rasp out the hiss, as whisps of winds licked from jackals lips.

Whip the words in willful waning of the facts.

Aim to ****

Ill just Relax to the drop of the ax

Im a ridiculous idiot

Meticulously breaking it down to absolutes, in my astute fickleness.

Lustily finding finesses in the regrets of others, smothering prideful chuckling of chummery in distractive strumming of the nothings, shielding the view of this place, changing the hue of my face in the light.

Step away from the light

You dont wanna see what lurks within the night

My lackluster mustering is the recipe for disaster.

Ill just master the disguise, with too much time, miles of smiles, lies, and cold hand shakes that imply my maniacal despise.

Hi!

when I was ten, I scraped the surface of my skin
soothing the nerves that might be achin’
and I dreamed of being a shape-shifter
instead of wearing my own skin, wanted to be a transformer
like Mystique covered her scales with brown-leather jacket
as if she was hiding in her friend’s pocket

I wanted to be a shape-shifter so bad
that I carry different names in different events
introducing another personality into another styles and bents,
desperate in escaping reality
that my first name is Nobody
with a last name of loser in a morena body

when I was thirteen, I wanted to be a telepathic
because middle school was boring and pathetic,
your freckles and scars was not considered as aesthetic
because they are distractive, not attractive
then most people was stereotypic
and put so much weight of stigma
that was heavier in my own persona

I hope I could read someone’s mind
to attend their standards and be acceptable, not behind
I hope I could seep in the openings of their cracks
to see if I could join in their popular groups and ranks
I wanted so bad to be telephatic
that my sanity was almost equal to chaotic and psychotic

when I was sixteen, I wished I had x-men gene of invisibility
because school was tiresome and heavy
and bullies was way powerful than your mental ability
that you would rather disappear and stay in eternal tranquility
then suffer from discrimination
because your skin was not society’s accepted complexion
they said, I didn’t belong anywhere
because I am nobody from nowhere

mom even said I’ll be fine and should work for it
I said that I am over it and I am so done with it
but mom didn’t understand that suiting yourself in was like
walking in fired coal with trigger in my feet of armalite the wall

now, I just turned 19, I finally understand
how world kept condemning, exploiting and oppressing people who are weak
who are in minority, not hearing their silent screech
I finally understand that if you have no power
people will trample and trample you to lower

I finally understand that I don’t need an approval stamp
from anybody that crushes my soul in *****
and you, yes you
you don’t need anybody to be whole
because, certainly, surely, you can fill your own hole
I finally understand that I am enough
that life is rough so you have to be tough
And I finally understand what made me stay,
you foolish prodigy, do not be easily swayed
I have the right to be here, you have to.

among the people that i hold accountable to suggest
someone has lost touch with reality:
    well, apologies for not engaging in your
  cinnamon-laced *** life - i sought other spices:
as in chilli for the tongue, and salt for my eyes,
and pepper for my nose - because that's what's
being debated: when philosophers come back
from their adventure i'll let you know what reality
actually is - then the cathedrals will crumble,
   then the neo-Babylonian extracts from modern
architectural preferences will become less neo-Babylonian
English and more: Glaswegian dialects
surrounded by Croat diacritical markings -
    as if drawing hunting antelopes in caves
   giving us "more" clues about the one inhospitable earth:
or are we truly surrendering to Darwinism
rather than carpe diem? i'm i'll ******* chirpy
given a dinosaur bone, and the timescale -
             and given that we turned Cartesian duality into
a dichotomy, everyday seems challenging:
a blimmin' boxing match 'n' all...
                                    i can't remember how many times
i've been k.o'ed (knocked out) in my waking moments
(conscious or, rather mourning? don't know).
      i still find it staggering they (no paranoia collective:
simply scientists) came up with the fact that the sun
(or any star) is a reaction of helium and hydrogen:
do people really explode into chipmunk joviality when
   doing a b.b.q. of their bodies on a beach?
             (asking questions becomes a ****** syringe
after a while) - and yes, use the term joviality before it
becomes archaic, you never know when it might
unearth a wormhole of Hades and **** the fact out
and flush it into oblivion.
              and some don bowler hats and use folded
umbrellas as walking sticks, perhaps the monocle,
but definitely the bow-tie: and make rhetoric of language:
airs, courtesy (court-t'eh-c vs. curt-see): herr chirurg!
how do you insert the scalpel into the rhythmic expression
of dribbling that kauczuk? (rubber ball).
      (cow- -chook).
           i mean in Cockney: how do you juggle that word
properly while balancing an oyster on your tongue?
and yes, i'm starting to believe Polish (as a language)
borrows too much from German - of the few slavic languages
i also say Kaiser bun -          she's called a variant of
antoinette, i.e., a kajzerka, or Wilhelm (dressed as a little
girl, all hurly burly) akin to philippe duke of orléans;
someone say lace stockings?
      i could write out this ******* in chauvinistic bravado
aesthetic: or i could smoke a cigar...
     and sooner we realised that crows never prayed
but croaked -
        that pigs grunted and never prayed -
that pigeons cooed, and never prayed,
       that monkeys did the mambo knock-knock joke -
that woodpeckers were the original carpenters and
                invoked the existence of the machinegun
and the rattler.
so there are people (sophists) who wear
bowler-hats, smocking, monocles and disdain:
rather ardently -
                 and then there are those that spontaneously
explode, from out of nowhere,
and dress themselves in rags and never rags to riches
sort of attitude - because appearances are deceptive
and too can be gambled with and neglected and seeing
a decay of a royal house: is much fancier than seeing
autumn...     because aren't the Windsors
                                         vacating Buckingham?
as in: from rot -                 apple and pear sweetness.
(at this point the poem should end) -
       not always the case of: less is more...
speaking on behalf the man who read the karamazov
brothers and stuck a leaflet on the back
of the book that read: the hash marihuana & hemp
museum - oudezijds achterburgwal 130 amsterdam
                    (next to the 'sensi seed bank' grow shop
   www.hashmuseum.com).
i mean you have read something equivalent of a brick
these days, at least one brick within that distractive
paradise of poetry - either the already mentioned book,
or war and peace, or in search of lost time,
or bolwesław prus' the doll - and they said
that life's short... not with these books being read it is...
life becomes a snail-paced traffic jam -
            it's what mystics aim at, across all religions:
the carpe diem momentum.
            it's not even boring, it's just a tedium-ladden
misanthropy: that suggestion is mainly aimed at seeing
an afternoon sitcom about 0-hour contract jobs...
       which is applauded by the terminally ill who
might say: thank **** it's not me.
            so we're all agreed - what the collapse of
communism left behind was a chance of a pension,
        given that all the western countries sold their remnant
versions of tribalism to stealth upper-tier formulations
         of "we're in this together" as otherwise know: companies...
we're not accompanied -
                   cold and wet and ***** -
                            which is odd why we'd think it
necessary to cause upheaval in iRaq...
                           given that the origins of communism were
in England, tested in Mongolia and then ingrained elsewhere...
ah, but of course, the profit margin: it's hard to
automate people surrounded by machines
        it's like olympians competing with para-olympians
where's talk of golf and the handicap?
              not here...
                       but i'm wondering, how can i redeem myself
after having stretched the poem for too long?
     point being: i can't change the status quo, and don't
intend to - and is that hypocritical or simply being
honest? well: if i managed to fit the concept of the big bang
into my little head: i'd choose the bullet every single time -
   we've established a majority, we've become as deluded
in our hopes for individuality: as was once deemed worthy
of the idea of god; we simply have established a constant
supply & demand parameters;
or what Heidegger calls: the perpetuated "ineffectual"
(well, not really him, my wording) -
                  basically a state of panic and
how different does concern compare with anxiety?
   a woman would tell a man that crimson is very different
from burgundy, as man would use the crude sigma:
red, red. n'es pas?

*i wish i could write something within the framework
of universal appeal; something simple
   and easily digested: like baby pulp, or simple
pulp of any fruit, mashed up and regurgitated
as if a seagull feeding its chicks... alas! not to be.

i studied chemistry, i'm not going to write you poetry like someone who graduated university with a degree in creative writing or English literature, i told you, time and again... philosophers have a strain on them to become scientists, but scientists have a strain on them to become humanists... philosophy is the only medium that chemists, biologists or physicists can become remotely humanistic in expression... and even if they do! humanists don't like it! it's just the same repeat of: et tu, Brute?! no one wins... not if you want to escape this Tartarus and gain some respect for the universality of man in hell taking tea with Mussolini and pass from their realm... not otherwise you won't; and i'm way past Dada.

writing Brexit Smokescreen / Cromwell and the Parliamentarians
i just had a few equations in mind -
at bit like mathematics - only slyly different,
slyly i mean - not really sly -
self-evident from lack of encouraging it:
predating the instigators of existentialism we have Descartes,
and that predates Kant's influence,
in simple geometric rubric, invoking = meaning therefore,
but not necessarily continuing from - to sequence,
more as pinpointing a a chiral symbiosis overcome -
ending with Sartre - the concept of bad faith and
the prime negation, meaning the lost utility of thinking,
a lax, preserved organically with a demented expression -
so:

i think = i doubt                  thinking does not precipitate
                                                  into existence

since many who exist do not necessarily question / think
out their existence - they do not equate the mere act
of thought as the prior expression of existing -
and that's egotistical - many say necessary, i agree -

i doubt = i'll attempt denial* - which turns all cognitive aspects
of my being in unreasonable examples lessened,
less mind more heart -
which is a precursor of something greater in the diminished
sense of responsibility to come undervalued -
the constraint without a straitjacket -
and so after attempting denial away from doubting i
can't exactly think, since my heart is no longer wavering,
hence my mind can't be either - i am bound
by the omni pre: precursor, predestined,
given a script before acting etc. -

i deny = i'm not thinking - and so much is true,
instead of saying that denial = not thinking, it also means
i'm left with apologies, i'm therefore not a thinker
but an apologist - notably C.S. Lewis - meaning i
have a script readied - so that i fake not having a conscience -
me? i wants to sees a striptease dances of politicians
and silver-back ancient gorillas shaving -

then where's China when i start digging from
the point of i think? well, it remains in i think,
one cubic of atmosphere experiences a butterfly flap somewhere,
while one cubic of atmosphere experiences a hurricane,
or the quantum theory exclusively partaking electrons
solely - meaning i think doesn't exactly equate to
a proof of existence per se, well, it does, i think
is a proof of i am per se, given the two are acquainted
with solipsism and mundane question
of being serf-conscious: cartesian solipsism is i think = i am,
but at the same time i = thought ≠ being -
the unwritten bestseller, the uncontested 100 metre sprint
to be challenged, e.g. - but this is carstesian solipsism,
this like a deviation in religion is not an orthodoxy -
based on a presupposition that Descartes wouldn't have
minded the addition (of solipsism to explain) -
what's more pronounced is bound to the explanatory
pivot-reflection ipso facto rather than per se, minding
that we have i think to take care of - and that's one
of the two units of solipsism - the other being i am,
ipso facto or simply alter ergo - rephrasing in the
superimposable Chiral, unlike simple Nietzsche's sum ergo cogito:
but as in sum ipso infacto - cogitatio -

(i am, by the fact
in-itself - thought - meaning i exist by a fact in-itself
compared with all other facts that are bundled up within
replicas / phenomena - the being thought, a factual
reference above: i brushed my teeth in the morning
two days ago - a as in a medium of what's being emphasised
on distractive enterprises, twins of atheism α- -θέ - as one points
as something, the other always points at itself without
the thing pointed at by the other, affirmative orientation
including nothing, or the grey multitude of the urban throng
and a self-worth - with a de-affirmative orientation
and a passerby, including self-perpetuation in the cartesian
cinema) -  
                       I TRUST THE RUSSIANS TO LOVE
                       READING...
                       NEVER TRUST THE ENGLISH
                       TO READ... THEY CAN'T READ,
                       BECAUSE THEY DON'T ENJOY IT!

the one abstract trans-grammatical
association, requisite of moral explanations and deviations
from the placebo of solipsism as being an utter
non-interactive entity - crudely as with cogito ergo sum:
sum ipso facto... now thought isn't allowed to finish
that equation - hence the perplexity at criminals -
i am by the fact itself - whereby guilt passes from the reins
of the perpetrator to the instigator - the crude: think,
therefore be - so many failed deviations from over-simplifying
this; i never write about philosophy as if i know -
i say: thought the precursor of knowledge,
given the benefit of doubt, meaning a heart,
not thinking being the precursor of ignorance,
given the benefit of denial, meaning the genitalia -
so many mistake their thinking as what others
define thought to not be -
and v. v. so many mistake their being as what others
define being to be - most notably
the contemporaries of prior Socrates were said
to be idiots - given Plato and Aristotle - only
later they regarded the pre-Socratics are equally footed
to be called philosophers as the un-adventurous academics
of Athens.

The Pop Culture is growing
More to study
more trivial knowledge
The entertainment category
less hobbied skills
We're so enthralled
Modern Age, information phase
So fun
The things we can do
when we're not working
and we're not not working
more these days
These days are so distractive
not by the hardships of life
but the ease
I see so much more that draws me in
I feel I should experience all
But there's no time
and my own expression
may be worth half of it anyway

I circle °§° when I'm attending to high priority problem solving...I get that "call", comes at any hour all the time.  
I am a creative, straightforward problem solver, of that I serve a Use.
I don't sugar coat or concern myself with asinine diplomacy when what needs to be done takes precedence over graceful depositary.
  
I'm the bullseye solution spokeswoman, I see past the distractive story, connect the dots, then go in for the **** of the comfort zone, I do not speak enchanting hokee, to smooth the shock of my delivery.
  
I Call it Out for What it is, then lock my eye on each target who owes explanation to my Question, I go down the board until I'm satisfied, Cold Silence lets them shiver just enough to feel the Cold Choices they sold, then I sit and smile with ease, and Offer plausible suggestions to **** the problem, fast, and with no remorse for their poor professional Choice.

We reconvene within the hour.
I listen to their fumbled excuses, but they always impress with a touching integrity, owning their choices made for reasons I understand, but will not stand...
"Gotta keep the Machine running, even when it's broken."
  
I receive official plan of action which I must always find compromise...but immediate action is immplemented, when I get my way, The take down hits'em where it hurts, the sleezy ****...
the **** is no small fish, the **** are the bleep bleep bleep with sanctioning power, so deft proceedings must start the the transition within reasonable forecast and market stability, but last 8 months showing progressive movement towards bleep bleep speaks louder, never trust the newscasters story, bleep bleep, it's looking like we will pull through, but turbulence is never far away.
  
Buckle up, stay cool, this baby  is clear for landing and a safe arrival.

Still I will °§° circle, seems spinnings my thing.

Break to planned position...

Lately I've been distracting myself
So I don't have to feel what I feel
Lately I've put emotions to the side
So I don't have to feel what I feel

It's hard living when you're depressed
And what's the point of being sad?
I constantly remind myself that it's just a waste of time
But sometimes
It catches up to me

- 07/14/19

I might be foolish, inane, when I said I was born to be brave,
I might be witless and strange, slowly forging my cave,
Self distractive and lethal in every way I behave,
I could be tainted and ****** by every smile that I gave.
Might be a slave to my craves, eternally dancing this wave,
Might be a vicious hypocrite in every inch of my claims,
I might be drowning in shame and guilt I’m failing to tame,
Despising what I became hence I’m loathing my name,
But there’s awakening hidden when you just take all the blame,
Like a messiah who’s risen, purely cleansed by the flame,
I’m more in touch and humane when only instincts remain,  
Today I’m squealing in vain but I’m most enlightened in pain,
Hear me now and heed me well, I’ll dance on top of your grave,
If you doubt me for just a second while I’m falling from grace,
Watch me destroy my diffidence and watch me make it my slave,
I’m more enthralled in disgrace and more enchanted displaced,
I’m more enlightened in pain.

What a mystery
Of how one can find themselves stepping in mud without ever knowing the mud was on their boots.
Only knowing after they step in the house and mother yells at them for the trail that they've left behind.
She yells for the cookie crumbs on your thighs, and for those nights you come home half alive.
She loves you so much, so she must keep scrubbing the floor with her blouse to rid it of your existence. She lathers her hands and places them on each point of  your resistance.
She will crochet herself to your heart, no matter how hard you're falling apart.
She will yell and scream and throw things at your head, all the while you're wishing you were dead.
So you go to sleep with self distractive lullabies, only to tune out your own lies. YOUR LIFE IS FINE. DONT YOU DARE LIE.

Most nights You find your self making playlists for sleep just to hear someone's voice that's not your own that's broken and weak.
Their words fill your bones making you feel less alone.
But there you go again, getting jealous of the happy breaking rules, breaking your own skin, now the music can no longer spin.
Later you hear someone say water cleanses the soul so you dunk yourself in it till your oxygen deprived bones starts stall.
You'll wake up tomorrow felling no sheet around with your numb fingertips. You'll be trapped by the weights of your failures.
You failed.
Your eyes will be red and puffy from the drops of last nights last hope.
That was your last chance and you even ******* that up.

You'll sit at your desk like normal knowing the things that you have done.
You'll pinch yourself so hard that your fingers will bleed
but just **** on the blood so it'll go back to your bloodstream , that's what you need.

I might have iron in my blood, but I'll never be strong enough to get up, take my first step, and leave the dark hole that I was thrown in. I want to watch as the blood leaves my veins while the water seeps into my skin.
Im cleansing myself.
It doesn't seem to help.
Nothing ever helps.
Nothing ever will.
Goodbye world, this is the last chance for me. No more fighting an up hill battle. Only white flags and shark infested waters. Goodbye cruel, cruel world.
I hope I never see you again.
Sincerely- ms nothing.

It's an antiquated photograph.
That dates back to when I was .... oh
half this bad.)))))))
It's like saying coffee whitener.
Isn't time and space.  
Retrace the clock to
get my ******* amateur status back)))))).
No lori from retail staff says coffee White ners just that non lactose crap)))))
She likes the coffee bitter and she might just ******* have it Black*
Talking about the cack. *Oh **** I might just be
A nother spastic asss ..... )))))but
Im asking for bombastic love.
To drastically eradicate bad habits that.)))))
Crash me into
Straight jackets
And plaster my drag photographs....)))))

On every window east of private school
Like look you guys that *** named clarence actually has a past)))))((((((
In cranbrooks yearbook.
Look here's my outdated classic autograph
Next to the crazy waves
And the knock off.
Korean minted starter cap.)))))
So **** the world we falling back.
Apparently I'm clarence.
In the rap game. But just how fuckn sad is that.
Come see my photograph
Its hanging next. To your *** therapist
A real ******* time traveling.
Distractive **** that smells like aqua man...... you ******* face the fishy underside of aftermath....
They'll drop you in a river.
With concrete boots. So ******* how now dah