The place
Where body
Meets the ground

Furthest from the place
Consciousness percieves
The things around

Matter under my feet
Where you find me
I am never bound

Many people always say
that they're okay
hoping we wouldn't believe
so don't be too naìve.
She needs your help
always feels bad about herself
she thinks she's worthless
never has true happiness

Everyone has a mask they put on
As believable as the rising sun
doing everything to conceal
most of what they really feel
until life becomes a living masquerade
feelings being hidden in the shade
See this is what I mean,
People aren't always as they seem.
Blissful on the outside,
but broken inside.

He needs you to realize,
when he says he's fine, it's a lie.
Learning to read him is key
to see beneath what the human eye percieves.
All he needs
is someone who can say, "You're good enough for me."

We use masks to hide it all
but someday, one could fall.
To prevent that, there's a lot you could do.
Make them feel special to you.

Everyday a living masquerade;
an abundance of hiding the pain.

I've been teaching people
how to be poets.
Now, even to me,
this sounds like canned *******.
But I believe that there is more to it.
It sounds so elitist to think
that you were just born with poetry
in your heart and mind.
That it could ever be so hard to find
inner meaning where there is none.
Even love is an illusion
the same way color never existed
outside the eye,
your beauty never existed
outside my heart.

Now before I start,
let me go back to square one.
I find it hard to believe that someone
can't be something just because... they aren't.
Poetry, like all art, is a skill
and like all art, you don't need to be good.
No-one is judging your art
unless you ask them to
and if it ends up in front of their face,
you've asked.
It's a skill, you get better and worse,
good days and bad days,
but some people just need to realize
what poetry really, really is.

It's not about rhyming, or even sounding good.
It's about meaning.
What's the deal with this flower?
This flower is art.
It's a piece of chlorophyll, who cares?
Because the flower is beautiful.
What makes the flower beautiful?
Because I choose to believe that this flower is more
than what my eye percieves.
Boy, this art **** sounds like
a bunch of crap.
*It really is.

In the darkness of the night we were designed to be as bright as The stars spread across the spacious skies of Twilight.
Never knowing that from the outside we shined.
Our expressions mirrors our thoughts weather it be divine or unkind.
I guess thats why they say The face is the window into the mind.
And The eyes are the pathway to the soul
Playing  the most influential role
Filtering what our vision percieves because  it affects us as whole.
It has the power to control the thoughts flowing through our menatal.
Now I understand why its impoartant to look beyond the physical,
Its too seek what truth lies within realms of the spiritual.
As I Let my words be like water and flow from my lips as i give my confessional
I begun to get emotional
Because I went from Fighting battles Just as Joshua did in Jericho
To Being surrounded by a devasting tornado
Only to coming out on the other side and being Just as glorious as a rainbow.
While The Most High Sculpts and paints my portrait of life  better Than any famous artifacts crafted my MichealAngelo.
Or Even more creativie and colorful than any painting by vincent van gogh.
And more Illustration then what is depicted in the Last Supper by Leonardo.
Builted with Empathy, curiousity and strong willed like children of Indigo.
I am a Specially made Individual.
Made in his image therefore I am beautiful.
No longer am I a Embryo, I have been birthed from the womb in the spiritual.
Like A Sunflower flourishing from the seed that was planted in the meadow, I grow.
As I stay under my Savior's teaching, learning and applying what I know.

His Love and blessings are as Rivers that overflow.
The Holy spirit illuminates my body lighting a fire in the pit of soul as it ignites a fluorescence light to glow.
Awaken My sleeping soul.

Look at poor Alex slumped on the floor.
Preoccupied with her own inferiority, talking to Bob to try to escape the life she hates.
Her incoherent mutterings co-mingle with her dribbling drool.  
Poor, poor Alex living in the shadow of everything she thinks was stolen from her.
Alex has learned to cope through the haze of chemicals and denial as she percieves those flames of hell licking at her to be the warm sun.
Poor, poor Alex.
Always wishing there was something more.

Behind all closed doors,
there are some open spaces,
Behind all Happy souls,
There are some sad faces.
Behind all eyes,
Is a story, it visually narrates.
Behind all worries and strifes,
There's a wierd, soothing solace.
Behind silence,
There's always a loud voice, that whispers, percieves and waits.
Behind all Smiles,
Is a mysterious story, with words at stake.
Behind all lies,
There's truth, that knows no haste
Behind this rapid,
lively, yet  lifeless life,
There still a life, that knows patience viz never a waste!

Behind us beings,
There's a something,
There's an energy,
An eternal someone,
Watching, gazing, beholding,
At what it has made,
And still makes,
Knowing, hoping, percieving
That it will once realise
Life's always about good choices,
Good efforts, Good companions, Good thoughts and great tastes!
Behind us masked people,
There's a Godly sage.

The highest level of sanity is achieved only when the mind percieves the inevitable regardless of how insane it sounds.

You succeed.
In laws of three. You will find the peace you
Wish to believe exists but for now is hidden under heaving fits of painful death, a test to draw out that which never minds rejecting the demands of other beings
Hammer under nail, no compare to restless privy minds slowly counting time until the new tragedies arrive.
Release your hold of pieces calling out for pain to pair once treasured memories. Now staring out with infectious longing, ready to be looked upon smirking and expectant the turncoat thoughts revel in the task at hand. Their assault starts as soon as the thought is called
Aftermath
Released to the gravity, by themselves they fall apart
Into place, covering flesh torn with sympathy
Released from beasts that grit their teeth in painful defeat, as, yes,
you rise to your feet, Torn to pieces, yet completely at peace, distant memory terror dreams distort to bring chaotic memoirs of cataclysmic merriment.
You utilize the pieces to assure your release from pains prison to pleasant pastures. Please just remember never obey the masters. Create sarcastic narratives pledging senators to heretics. Don't trust fantasy banner ******* brand name Promoters. Lœsers leading children to sheep eye machîne, specially crafted master adapters hard wire minds to the one percent agenda, intuition driven minions giving men to temptress, hoof to fenthris, dope to misfits, coke bottles to **** maker accomplices driven awkward and subsequently dove off for bottom place.
Freebie

I mote it. Be recieved with sight conscious of that which truth and wisdom delight.
Everfolding hands coalesce in geometry of design, symbols to be applied to help those who can't live. Honestly.
A prophetic glance manifests what this prophet percieves within this mess.

This species will mirror the mentality of the dust
It's depths a source of nourishment and plenty to us, the rust
Will we find the hero to navigate the puppetmasters collective cluster conglomerate commissioning commonwealth copperpot penny peasantry meat, footwoorkin the fleet floggers, ambushing citizens in the streets with collars, brainwashing caverns codependent on caging the masses like sheep to slaughter.
"But if we'd known we'd scream and holler! I'd rise to protect my property, my guns, my freedoms, my rights!"
Right, no, I'm sure you'd fight, you'd obviously gather friends to your plight, indigenous rage at the thought that the night would defend those evil shadow people encroaching on your ability to reason.
Shut the **** up, what the **** have you done to avenge those innocents of fate, unknowingly recollecting secrets of the state
Hate not flaking over city lake waters like mirrors hiding secrets well obvious.

Money & public resources alleviate proof of collusion simple doors of power hold new potential outcomes timed each revolution the little hand dares to travel. that of a sacrifice, willing or not, to help scare the sheep into buying as much of their stock, if your worried please do not, the flock will forget what they saw as soon as the image and story are gone.

Gotta be.

A solution so fitting it belongs in the movies, but that's how we forgot how to think, outside
For ourselves,for them, or the others
Rebelling as one towards sisters and brothers
*******, I need show my true face
Walk calmy down the streets,
Calm sure pace.
Talk macabre to the one's who own the fleets, spread the sheets to occupy the godhead, sift the merry morning stocks press against the current sea, then bust out enough to make me n mine a new currency.
Probably
Not so sore plot B soars blotting lenses before but not training more thoughts to war forescore before plot thickening remorse runs it course.
A new day in gotham city means unity throughout forgotten realms of hypocrisy. A cure-all demonstration that revels insanity for placid reasonably dressed persons composed, unfearing conversations of dominating resolve, stoicism spinning round professional mannerisms focusing on abilities that take the core of our rotten hearts and heal the waste, now it stays, hurting less sounds okay away from the corrupted hunting of weak willed pumpkins jumped over plummeting suns, all for one's been a worn out joke, once well spoken juxtaposed to unholy notions unnaposed sides take thrill **** maxxing to disastrous uprising in past the warcasters
Talked with the enemy over tea and brunch of tables shared only with tokens of luck, fliping thrice indicates which squadron lots gets iced.
Word gets out and like fire it don't take much for a war to sprout in the bogs of ire, but before it's allowed, the dog rise together finally to figure **** out, creating together masterpieces on earth to reoccur annually until our home is brought back to a state we continue symbiotically.
Fate to be

**** it all, the last of my regrets was all reasoning needed to keep breathing.
Something other than this wretch that I am
Existing for no reason but to help others pass the seasons with my singing