"philanthropist" poems
Inside the great
big global village
not everything is rosy
even a cat knows it
a leaf can sniff it.
The Moon shines
not in every night
nor God promised
always a blue sky.
Still the roses bloom
Cinderella has the lot
the reasons to groom.
The richest among the folks
turns philanthropist in the globe.
The wisest among the men
celebrate the era for it’s
the civilisation at its peak.
Hooray what now triumphs at last
is the wisdom and humanity!
Really? O please tell me?
Not very far, nor for much,
just because some differ in faith
mothers and fathers left in pain.
Not because they are to lose
Rohingyan sun nor the land
beneath their feet but in no time
their sons and daughters
can be put to death into fire
that too before their eyes
before the silent established world!
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 11:32 PM UTC
Imagine a world with no discrimination
A world living in harmony comprising of peaceful nations
The only colour reference would be made to nature
Humans will no longer be judged on their nomenclature
Such is a dream seen by all
But Sir Mandela was the one who took the call
On July 18, 1918, a hero was born
But due to his colour all everyone did was scorn
No one in his family had ever attended school
He was the first one to break this rule
On the first day of school their teacher gave them an English name
This was an African custom due to British bias – how mundane
And that is how Nelson became his first name
He kept it even after he shot to fame
A member of the African National Congress
He gave his opponents a reason to stress
A great politician, revolutionist, lawyer and philanthropist
Served 27 years in jail but never used his fist
Although a controversial figure for most of his life
He won the Nobel Peace Prize for ending the South African apartheid strife
On December 5, 2013, this giant passed away
The things that we can learn from him are a lot more than I can say
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
Feel the strengths of vein that hold the whole of your neck!
A life of loose you live on believe
A hope, a Faith even when you barely know a god.
****** juz be like:#OluwaIsInvolved
Your father owns an Estate, even a country built in Gold
The #Street remains a #Paradise
You'll wanna go, even if you have to be named #Devil
You drop your #Pride like it never mattered
To gather a better world
Where you'd be worshiped as #Boss
You chase a #Bigger dream that the oldest in your family won't dare.
Rub-in all pains that attaining #LandNeverPromised would wanna bear
You #Focus , patiently hoping for what is never #Certained
You #Beg your 'Luck' more than the rate you beg your #God
To meet the #One that would bring you the #PayDay of no accountable #Duty
#Legitimacy becomes the most irritating Slogan you'll Cause your brethren that ever utters.
Authority, a #Foe that would stop you from dressing #TooLoud,
Anything you ever #Wished links way back to #Money
#MoneyMustBeMade the only #Pledge that keeps echoing in your brain
A #Brain that works only to unlawfully take from the token of a #Brother
With the #Vengeance-filled mind of eradicating Poverty that denied you of a better #Background,
When you have a #PayDay, you still long for a million more
In a better fold that could last you many more #Lifetime
Then, you pick back the #Pride you allayed for a while so #Long
Now reflect that part of you.
That part, you rebuked a #RichYoungDude earlier on for
Or the #Angelic one you would ever love a #Philanthropist for
Remain on the #LowestKey for 'a now's ' while
To be at the #HighestKey, even under the deepest ground
And keep your #Brain more opened than #YourEyes
While you make the only thing that keep you going as #GodBlessTheHustle
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
No, I'm not a capitalist, a socialist or a communist .
I'm not a racist, a fascist or a nationalist.
No, I'm not an idealist, a pacifist or a humanist.
I'm not a Buddhist, a Taoist or an atheist.
No, I' m not an activist, a conspiracist or even an anarchist.
Neither elitist nor philanthropist.
I am just me, there is no twist.
I am simply me, happy to exist,
sick of symbols and ideological mist.
Open your heart and you will see,
it is not me or you, it's we.
Symphony in the cacophony.
Let's tell the king while on his knee,
I am me and we are free and that is how it's gonna be.
You have gone too far, oh mighty Czar,
but we can break any bar, ist das klar?
We are humans, we insist, and from your labels we desist.
We are people and we're ****** oh we promise, we'll resist.
I am me and I am we. I am you and so is she.
We are the leaves of the tree, but what will fall is tyranny
We are I, my oh my, and we shall fight until we die.
We are I so we can fly. We are I and we stand high.
23/04/12
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
His name is Zachary James
But he's shouted at by many names
Running man or crazy jogger
Pushing all he needs in a stroller
Dodging cars like a game of Frogger
His passion for running is a benefactor
Of his compassion for humanity
Running across the country is insanity
Knows politics better than Sean Hannity
A motor city kid and an Eastern Michigan grad
Thought he'd run to correct a world gone mad
Our paths crossed on the vicious highway 322
If you're lucky, fate will send him your way too
I'm proud to host such a fine young philanthropist
But soon he'll run off into the mysterious mist
Yet he will jog on proud and steadfast
With our help reaching his goals at last
Run for the children and for the love of running
Run for life and eternity hereafter coming
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
EAST BOSTON, 1996
ON THE BUS
Franz Wright
It's one thing when you're twenty-one,
and I was way past twenty-one.
With unshaven face half concealed in the collar
of some deceased porcine philanthropist's
black cashmere rag of a coat,
I knew that I looked like a suicide
returning an overdue book to the library.
Almost everyone else did as well,
but I found no particular solace in this;
at best, the fact awakened some diverting speculations
on the comparative benefits
of waiting in front of a ditch to be shot
alone or in company
of others, and then whether one would prefer
these last hypothetical others
to be friends, family, enemies, total
or relative strangers. Would you hold hands?
Or would you rather like a good **** sapiens
monster employ them
to cover your genitals?
What percentage would lose bowel control?
And given time restrictions -
and assuming some still had the ability to move -
would ostracism result? Anyway,
I knew the rules on this bus.
No eye contact: the eyes of the terrified
terrify. Look
like you know where you're going,
possess ample change to get there,
and don't move your lips when you talk
to yourself: the destroyed
and sick, the poor, the hungry
and the disturbed estrange.
The badly dressed estrange, even,
and that is uncalled for. The degree
of one's power to estrange will increase
in direct proportion to the depth
of need for others. Do not cry.
This can only bring about, on the one hand,
an instant condition of banishment
from the sole available companionship, or
on the other, a near
fatal beating (one more disappointment).
Just follow the simple instruction
if you ever come here.
It's easy to remember - any idiot can do it.
Don't cry,
the world has abandoned us.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
before existentialism, and nietzsche in mind, philosophy was written
or spoken of accepting the socratic rigidity of words,
the rigidity of words known through
the socratic method of inquiry:
the simplest of questions imposed on
the meaning of words; e.g. what is virtue?
but with existentialism this old method
of inquiry, the poised posing bewilderment
lost its quality, in that the new method of
inquiry was given to stress not a method
of questioning but that of ambiguity,
even though this new method that simply
said the reverse of what is virtue as
the preservation of a narrative: "virtue" concedes
many variations exampled true, e.g. -
this dittoing going against - previously said /
as above - became staged against
a brick wall - since this method, the existential
method of brushing aside inquiry and entering
the realm of ambiguity was already present -
the pluralism of meaning found in certain words;
it isn't a question whether red or blue can
be ambiguous, this allocation of noun
and quality is all too pervasive - so when
an ambiguity is allowed to exercise its stressor
posit - the word in question is allocated
a verb orientation in its exercise of use and example,
further diluted by the quantity and lack of example,
and ascribed contorting
adjectivity due to the dilution of meaning: with lessened
recognition of sought out qualification to sentence
an enzymic perfection of: banker and philanthropist,
priest and maximilian kolbe, poetry and lack of envy.
even though these examples are idealistic,
they provide the obvious ambiguity already apparent,
hence the double ambiguity of opposites, ideal opposites.
in shorthand - if socrates were to come
upon reading existentialism - his questions
regarding the virtues would be bound to free floating
terms in the ditto bubbles of flimsiness of non-inquiry -
bewildered by the number of prompts to question,
there would be no necessary ambiguity to many other
terms of inactivity - such as the previously mentioned
red and blue, dog and glue, but too many, it would seem,
should a strict belief in categorising virtue as a noun
but not a verb be kept - for categorisation of such nature
only provides a linear cascade without due action
or cared for imitation - ending with the only chance of virtue
chanced and seen as an unvirtuous person
doing crossword puzzles in silence - and already
virtue's opposite is engaged in defending itself
and justifying its ills by first forcing many synonyms to
cover it in ambiguity, and asserting itself as an adjective
within a noun framework blunt: virtue v. unvirtuous
will only confiscate siamese phonetic mingling to ease the definition;
i guess that's how rhyming was born, the opposite
of alphabetical ordering: a, aardvark the violet's blue
****** a doughnut with you.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
*Philanthropist.
She is a philanthropist,
as simple as it's said,
a considerate individual,
with a passion that is colored red,
A charitable giver,
for those who are in need,
a positive entertainer,
and a creative brain inside her head,
There is no other word for it,
it is really what it says,
A cheerful philanthropist,
Living up her endless days,
To all those who aren't balanced,
she fixes up the scales,
To all the propaganda,
she gives truth to all the tales,
Though she is aware,
that with all the gifts she gives,
she doesn't get much in return,
She will continue bringing back the peace,
simply hoping the human race may learn,
Giving is a gift,
of an angelic sort,
and to give this gift,
Is a caring thought,
So if you give more than you get,
but you give to those in need,
know that you are a philanthropist,
and your care could of fed a hungry child,
And you will help clear the world of greed.
By Larna Kira Kourtis AKA LkSkyFlyRose
Aged 14
~Peace~
By LkSkyFlyRose*
© 2014 LkSkyFlyRose (All rights reserved)
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
The Nigerian Princess
Philanthropist at her best
Could rule the world with her mind and soul
But healing Nigeria is her overall goal
The Nigerian Princess
She is more than less
I'd crown her queen
For her debut scene
Is literacy in Nigeria
She is Queen Panacea
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
You only watch the news to find out
Where the con artist stands,
He opens his mouth and nonsense comes out
And whether it matter to us or not;
We have to make sure that the Philanthropist
Doesn’t make it to the white house
Mr. Obama said that he has faith in the American people
Do you have faith in yourself?
or the mockingbird on the platform?
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
My head feels like a visit to the cranioscopist’s,
Like someone bored through it with a drill.
Inflamed and ill,
Like the ego of a billionaire philanthropist.
Flashbacks of “You”,
Got me off my tracks and feeling blue,
Stumbling around in pain, without a ******* clue.
My neck is aching,
My body is shaking,
My ******* soul feels like it’s breaking.
Volcanic unrest, putting my heart to the test,
Got manic anger strapped to my chest like a suicide vest.
I’m the spectre of truth, a hard hitter,
Like that last, smooth drink that fails your liver.
A lone wolf whose claws are made of words,
A man grown bitter and whose heart hurts.
My legs feel heavy and tired –
Is it now accepted to not have energy to even exist?
For that certainly isn’t how we’re naturally hard-wired.
I don’t know how to accept the illusion,
There seems to be no solution –
I look desperately, amidst the confusion.
I look for similarly empty eyes,
For those who do see the lies.
The only truth left is this;
He who murders lives, and he who loves dies.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
I am a.... philanthropist at heart.
It's written on my face, tattooed on my right arm, and runs in my blood
I love you.
Yes, you reading this.
I love you.
I love the colour of your eyes.
I love the way your mouth smiles.
I love the way your face moves
I love the way you push people away,
that love you.
I love the hugs that you give
I love the way you sing when no-one is listening.
I love you when you look in your mirror and find all your flaws.
I love your fingertips that press the buttons on your keyboard.
I love the txts that you send
I love it when you miss out on the world because facebook is more important
I love you when you give money to the homeless
I love you when you walk on by
I love your dark sins, your demons and your prison of fear
I love your altruism.
I love the shoes you hate and don't like to wear
I love you when you think you're fat
I love you when you work out
I love you when you are loving someone else
I love you when you are laid on the bathroom floor unable to breathe from hanging onto the world
I love you when you look away
I love you when you think you can't take anymore and want to die
I love you when you are angry, bitter and detest these words
I love your accent
I love the hairs that grow on your toes.
I love the way you part your hair
I love you despite the fact you think you are not meant to be loved.
I love your goofy dance moves
I love your tired face and 'talk to me and die' look
I love you when you're weak and afraid
I love you when you think you're invincible
I love you when you are addicted
I love you when you are lost and alone
I love you when you are in love
I love you when you steal, beg or borrow
I love your thinking face, your thunder face, and your 'hold me' face
I love you when you are a thousand miles away
I love you when you snore next to me
I love it when you swear, curse and reject me, and my love
I love you when you question my love
I love you when you turn your back on me
I love you when you hurt me, beat me, abuse me, and take my heart and crush it like a tin can
I love you,
Always, now and forever.....
I love you, because i see you, because i know you, because i know you are worthy of love.
Philanthropist. Look it up.
<3
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
*i've been to kenya, all that these "charity" adverts are fuelling
is ignorance, they're presupposing
all the african nations are like kindergarten,
they're insulating them... it's like that:
give a man fish or give him a fishing rod,
i.e.: give a man money or give him a
method creating & subsequently circulating wealth:
these charitable companies are insulting
african nations to be at a loss,
they're only feeding european bureaucrats
who are really the only worthwhile
charitable pay-cheque givens, odds 4-5.*
a retired lady selling poppies
for a feeling
committed suicide
being hunted by ninety-nine
charity organisations...
charity organisations...
start-ups akin to apps of
cue: shaved face, young, eager
****** venom ****** statues
of jealousy...
all the bankers' wives have
a tier system, the origin of
charity companies
(surely a wife can't be as pristine
as her husband):
first two don't count,
third: modern art "collector",
fifth: philanthropist,
seventh: possessor of an O.B.E.
and as one bemused englishman said:
king arthur and the zimmerframe table
of knights with walking sticks rather than swords:
money made people lazy, less adventurous,
let alone less tribal and communist,
adventure just became predictable,
tourism...
the modern shopper is envious of
the hunter gatherer... so envious
he wants to look the part, but live as modern
lazy allows... after all... all the gym sessions
can't go to waste... got to run standing still:
hey! don quixote! leave the windmills!
check out the treadmills... you see a caveman
anywhere in the sweaty parlours?
i don't.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
stolen verses blanket the floor space
encircled by the inspiration of others
tastelessly faceless
pests controls fail
as the numbers overwhelm
everyone thinks there are special
and the selfies are there to prove it
zit faced miscreants misrepresent mankind
in asexual fodder and anthropomorphic
suburban camo
turban wearing wash-outs
hold court over newbies
attempting to sew again
hippy seeds
their stench, deafening –
sandaled dirt clods
scamper
seeking selfishly surrogates
someone to birth their ideas
raise and tend the dreams
fund the movement
all the while recognizing the futility
feverishly fapping the frail phallus
frequently finding foolish *********
flipped in their folly –
********* the finale
freakish frogs filibuster
night creeps in as the soft sound of mating toads
fill the air
stars dot the moonless night
complete in its absence of clouds
only the wash of the milky way
holds hearts –
pandering to the philanthropist
looking longingly in giving eyes
for a scrap of dignity
and bread –
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
People wonder, how can Christ, be all things to everyone?
Without the proper perspective, Truth can be missed.
So carefully consider some ideas presented here,
before these spiritual concepts are mistakenly dismissed.
To the BUILDER, Christ is the Sure Foundation.
To the ARCHITECT, He is the Chief Corner Stone.
To the GEOLOGIST, He is the Rock of Ages.
To the SCULPTOR, He is the Living Stone.
To the STUDENT, Christ is the Incarnate Truth.
To the PHILOSOPHER, He is the Wisdom of God.
To the BANKER, He is the Hidden Treasure.
To the PREACHER, He is the Word of God.
To the DOCTOR, Christ is the Great Physician.
To the SERVANT, He is the Good Master.
To the THEOLOGIAN, He is the Author of our Faith.
To the EDUCATOR, He is the Great Teacher.
To the JEWELER, Christ is the Pearl of Great Price.
To the ARTIST, He is the One Altogether Lovely.
To the HORTICULTURIST, He is the True Vine.
To the FLORIST, He is the Lily of the Valley.
To the STATESMAN, Christ is the Desire of all Nations.
To the CARPENTER, He is the Eternal Door.
To the PHILANTHROPIST, He is the Unspeakable Gift.
To the LAWYER, He is the Lawgiver, Advocate and Counselor.
To the BIOLOGIST, Christ is the Life.
To the ENGINEER, He is the New and Living Way.
To the TOILER, He is the Giver of Rest.
To the SINNER, He is the Lamb Who takes all sin away.
Our Christ is a multi-faceted personality,
Who has something for everyone who comes to Him.
Therefore, we should continue to rejoice in Who He is,
by offering heart-felt praise through songs and hymns.
Author notes
Loosely based on:
Col 1:15-18; 2 Tim 2:19; Eph 2:20; Isa 26:4; 1 Pet 2:4-12;
Matt 28:20; Cor 1:24; John 1:1; Heb 12:2; Jer 17:14; Matt 19:16-17;
John 1:3; Matt 16:13-17; John 3:1-2; Matt 13:45; John 15:1;
SoS 2:1; Hag 2:7; John 10:7; Cor 9:15; James 4:12; 1 John 2:1-2;
Isa 9:6-7; John 14:6; Heb 3:1-4:13; John 1:29
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
This poem is not meant to serve as an all encompassing list of professions; for example, here are a few more viewpoints not mentioned:
To the BAKER, He is the Living Bread.
To the JUDGE, He is the Righteous Judge of all Men.
To the NEWSPAPER, He is the Good Tidings of Great Joy.
To the OCULIST, He is the Light of the Eyes.
To the SOLDIER, He is the fortress.
To the CHRISTIAN, He is the Son of the Living God, the Savior, the Redeemer and the Lord.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
recollecting collections projecting selections injecting protection infection dejection
dyslexic narcoleptic rejecting dejections ******** complexion complicating interjections
perplexed inspectors intercept pterodactyls relaxing in backpacks extracting disillusion
contortionist philanthropist dejected transgression implementing eradications of moss buying patrons
eclectic perfectionist rests limp-wristed whispering disparaging remarks to the wait staff
trombone percussionist impressed and impoverished gravelling wistfully mimicking Rickles
I sit half disheveled grinding my wisdom teeth feeling the fleeting muse sitting in disbelief –
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
BILLY the Kid was truly a kid when found in the company of children.
Many children of his day would go on to say
how much they wished their playtime with him would never end.
Good Guy/Bad Guy were one of the games Billy would play with the children in town.
"Bang! Bang! You're dead Billy!"
Billy would then grab hold of his chest and comically fall down to the ground.
Salsa Bocca recalls her playtime spent with her playmate Billy Bonney.
"He used to bounce me on his knee for what seemed like hours as if I were riding a pony."
The following story might not be true but I'll still share it with you
because it certainly fits Billy's profile.
This young boy in dismay kept following Billy all day.
Wherever Billy went he was followed by this star struck child.
"Do you know who I am?" Billy asked the young lad.
The child simply nodded, "Yes" was all that he said.
Billy took off his hat, dusted it off and placed it on the young boy's head.
The innocent young child was overjoyed and smiled
and then this is what Billy said and did.
"If anyone ever asks you who gave you that hat,
you tell them you got it from BILLY the Kid."
Billy was also very respectful of the elderly
and very sympathetic towards they who were poor.
Many times he would extend acts of kindness towards them.
He was a true philanthropist at heart to be sure.
The newspapers portrayed him as this dangerous desperado,
someone to be hated and feared and appalled,
but to all the residents of Fort Sumner, New Mexico
Billy was very fondly adored by all.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 2:59 AM UTC
Well, we only lost one
But it was a rock star
we only lost one
But she was a soccer player
we only lost one
But he was a philanthropist
we only lost one
But she was a podiatrist
we only lost one
But he was a good dad
we only lost one
But she drove us all mad
Well, we only lost one
But it should’ve been our first one
As the days go by
No matter how hard we cry
Nor times we ask why
We will never know
Well, we only lost one
And we missed all the toys
we only lost one
And we missed all the stories
we only lost one
And we missed all the scrapes
we only lost one
And we missed finger smashed grapes
we only lost one
And we missed all the laughs
we only lost one
And we missed all the baths
Well, we only lost one
And we will try for another one
As the days go by
No matter how hard we cry
Nor times we ask why
We will never know
Well, we only lost one
So my heart severely aches
we only lost one
So tears puddle like lakes
we only lost one
So this emptiness is real
we only lost one
So things seem so unclear
we only lost one
So why does it feel like more?
we only lost one
So to the sky I roar
Well, we only lost one
So we hope to meet the next one
As the days go by
No matter how hard we cry
Nor times we ask why
We will never know
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 4:42 PM UTC
I think I'm pretty hot ****
most of the time.
Humility has it's place,
and it's place is in the podium.
Used to meter smiles and sighs and double talk,
with hopes to fill the ballot box.
See,
the heretics will tell you,
"You have so much more than we,
share a bit. Especially with me."
**** those ******
I don't fall for
concerned,
condemned,
condescending
conspirators
of the big philanthropist in the sky.
Intimidating,
masticating,
wishy washy,
woe-is-me,
cross carrying,
brother burying,
evangelical,
superintendents
of self-deprecation.
Where does my wealth of mental health come from?
I take pleasure in peace, that is to say,
the lack of both pleasure and pain.
And yes, I feel I get "It" with a capital I.
Because, you see, there is no "Why"
only I and I.
These eyes have seen 22 calendar years,
through bouts of laughter and selfish tears,
but these eyes have the years behind
the comprehension of Your minds.
I am older than time.
I am younger than those yet to be born.
I have had the wealth that comes with scorn.
I have thrown my back out beating corn.
I've had lover's lost, and love retained.
I've dissolved my brain, yet remained sane.
Every song, every people,
Every plant, stone, stick, or bone,
sceptre, crown, yoni, or throne,
are composed by moi so apropos.
You
are all deluded to deduce separation from each other.
You have spent lifetimes slaying the Other.
But then, again, so have I.
Sin is separation. To feel the disconnect,
whether by sense or intellect,
is to lose yourself within your
Self.
When the I is so infinite, what need is there to share?
Teach a man to fish...
Grant him his wish.
We are all we need to be.
"I" is all you need to be
Take this moment as it is.
Don't ask permission.
Don't apologize.
It's your right to breathe
It in.
It's your right to take that step outside your comfort zone
and wander off into the unknown on a whim.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
When you love yourself and others, you're a philanthropist.
When you love yourself but hate others, you're arrogant.
When you hate both yourself and others, you're a misanthrope.
When you hate yourself but love others, you're lost.
When you can't make up your mind on both, you're lazy and out of touch.
Choose yours.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
You've cut ff your feet
to spite your head
Is there nothing left
in between?
is your whole life
blackened
and squandered
rotted and
gnarled
by gangrene?
*Join me, come in.
Cavort with the dead
Join me, come in.
I can't be alone in my head.*
How can you sit
there
with blood on your face
and not feel
it dry to a crust?
How can you sit
there
with gore on your hands
knowing you shiver
from lust?
*Join me, come in.
Cavort with the dead.
Join me, come in.
I can't be alone in my head.
You, too, must feel torment
and torture.
You, too, must be plagued
without cure.*
Where are you going?
to hell and not back?
Did you buy your ticket
to ride?
or
will you walk
into
the bottomless pit
draped with your badges
flesh putrefied?
Heads on lapels like
an Easter corsage
dead lilies like
those on a grave,
a grave that you dug
then
stepped in to forage
to eat as a worm of the flesh.
Flesh young and tender
that flamed with desire
till your curse
extinguished
the fire.
*Join me, come in.
Come into my fire.
Join me, come in.
We'll wade through
the mire
with blood
in our mouths
and our eyes.
Taste of the pain,
the glorious pain.
Like a gift
I give it to you,
offered again and again,
a philanthropist
swollen with bounty,
who bestows what
he has
like a prize.*
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
Rebellion is a task because there are a number of forces to overcome.
The first being the saturation of the grid and the reasonable desire to succeed against these odds, that in turn make this lifestyle difficult to achieve.
-- The realization of the powers that hold our government with the capability to destroy the very genetic code of human beings.
Fed by extreme structure until life outside the system is illegal.
Second: the curse of pattern recognition and the grand achievement of neurolinguistics;
The systematic and biological inclement of philanthropist action
taken to assert an advertisement is within itself a mechanism
to wash true passion for life on this earth.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC