The virtuous society Lost regulates overwhelming
                               DISTASTEFUL
                               Condescension
Depraved citizens all contained then become cynical
                                BREAKING
                                Reprehension
A mandate or suggestive guideline to think like a criminal

If Fate should seal my Death to-morrow,
  (Though much I hope she will postpone it,)
I’ve held a share Joy and Sorrow,
  Enough for Ten; and here I own it.

I’ve lived, as many others live,
And yet, I think, with more enjoyment;
For could I through my days again live,
I’d pass them in the ’same’ employment.

That ‘is’ to say, with ’some exception’,
For though I will not make confession,
I’ve seen too much of man’s deception
Ever again to trust profession.

Some sage ‘Mammas’ with gesture haughty,
Pronounce me quite a youthful Sinner—
But ‘Daughters’ say, “although he’s naughty,
You must not check a ‘Young Beginner’!”

I’ve loved, and many damsels know it—
But whom I don’t intend to mention,
As ‘certain stanzas’ also show it,
‘Some’ say ‘deserving Reprehension’.

Some ancient Dames, of virtue fiery,
(Unless Report does much belie them,)
Have lately made a sharp Enquiry,
And much it ‘grieves’ me to ‘deny’ them.

Two whom I lov’d had ‘eyes’ of ‘Blue’,
To which I hope you’ve no objection;
The ‘Rest’ had eyes of ‘darker Hue’—
Each Nymph, of course, was ‘all perfection’.

But here I’ll close my ‘chaste’ Description,
Nor say the deeds of animosity;
For ’silence’ is the best prescription,
To ‘physic’ idle curiosity.

Of ‘Friends’ I’ve known a ‘goodly Hundred’—
For finding ‘one’ in each acquaintance,
By ’some deceived’, by others plunder’d,
‘Friendship’, to me, was not ‘Repentance’.

At ‘School’ I thought like other ‘Children’;
Instead of ‘Brains’, a fine Ingredient,
‘Romance’, my ‘youthful Head bewildering’,
To ‘Sense’ had made me disobedient.

A victim, ‘nearly’ from affection,
To certain ‘very precious scheming’,
The still remaining recollection
Has ‘cured’ my ‘boyish soul’ of ‘Dreaming’.

By Heaven! I rather would forswear
The Earth, and all the joys reserved me,
Than dare again the ’specious Snare’,
From which ‘my Fate’ and ‘Heaven preserved’ me.

Still I possess some Friends who love me—
In each a much esteemed and true one;
The Wealth of Worlds shall never move me
To quit their Friendship, for a new one.

But Becher! you’re a ‘reverend pastor’,
Now take it in consideration,
Whether for penance I should fast, or
Pray for my ’sins’ in expiation.

I own myself the child of ‘Folly’,
But not so wicked as they make me—
I soon must die of melancholy,
If ‘Female’ smiles should e’er forsake me.

‘Philosophers’ have ‘never doubted’,
That ‘Ladies’ Lips’ were made for ‘kisses!’
For ‘Love!’ I could not live without it,
For such a ‘cursed’ place as ‘This is’.

Say, Becher, I shall be forgiven!
If you don’t warrant my salvation,
I must resign all ‘Hopes’ of ‘Heaven’!
For, ‘Faith’, I can’t withstand Temptation.


P.S.—These were written between one and two,
after ’midnight’. I have not ‘corrected’, or ‘revised’.
Yours, BYRON.

Try as I might
To ignore the insufferable
Clamorous racking my brain
All too audible
Are these despicable
Sickening shrill
Voices wicked, malicious,
Insipid kids still
Instigating and baiting
Me closer to spill
My contempt vitriol
Seething passion to ****
Every little last filth-frothing
Mouth to feed dead
Bottom-fed in this
Stress-induce cesspool are bred
In an **** of virulent,
Ignorant stench
Still entrenching my senses
In sieges of tension
And drenching my clenching jaws
In reprehension
Spat out in the face
Of this whole human race
But mostly just this
Poor excuse for its waste

How to approach something so intangible, with little cellular to describe to my nerves
How to make verbal something so emotional, based on psychology and civil construction
How to perceive myself appropriately despite the eroding drips that pierce progress and old photos I cling to with such immaturity
These questions all are for the same goal, that progression of the self, all those substantial, cerebral, sensual and societal realisations that I yearn for
And yet... I sit, making delusional dreams come true in screens, I sit, making deep intellectual arguments for causes that aren't my own, I sit, researching complicated **** ups and ****** withs the powerful inflict in their attempts to balance a system born broken and biased
Screens are our new ****** it seems, as we reject religion our screens let us forget that the world continues around us, or encourage us not to care
And I come to this self consciousness, this ironic hypocritical reprehension
Because I really enjoy what all these creative minds and years of work and beauteous ideas have given me, but with the same hypocritical tone, despise my compulsion to stare into pixels

As I indulge this self awareness, I know I will continue with the same mental obesity of consumption tomorrow
And there will be no hypocritical self evaluation, just self involved enjoyment
Until the moments come when I am left alone with my mind
Self conscious, reflective, feeling as the time has been lost, but my mind is too tranquilised with pixel and poster representations of reality to notice
This won't change but...

Maybe if I take some time to turn pages rather than press buttons, and stare at sunsets rather than screens
That self evaluative journey I've ignored and returned to sporadically in the reflective yet warm darkness would be less intimidating
And if nothing else, on those days where reality lies next to me filling my cerebral stomach with the undeniably existential
I might feel a bit better about those days lost to other people's stories

She falls in love with rejection
The lack of attention
She may need an intervention
But it cant be prevented
The mere mention
Of self descension
Wraps her mind in a new dimension
She falls for degradation
And cant help her fascination
She is stuck in a contravention
Which leads to sleep deprivation
He is not easy to fool
She thinks in admiration
She is in love with rejection and his never ending reprehension

So unsure of the thoughts we think,
Yet, so confident in these masks we flaunt,
Day to day we play the part,
But not just quite! yells out our heart.
When the crowd disappears,
When its late at night,
So late that you envy the birds chirping,
The ever rising sun mocking you,
Is when you feel at most like you for that's all that's left.
It's when you feel at home,
Like your worn out feet can rest.
As an old time projector shows,
Your mind plays scene after scene,
But you know it's always just a showing for one.
Of wins, losses,
Love, lovers and well again, more losses.
Night is the decider and the one to always listen.
No advice or judgments made,
No words are needed because theres no need when silence tells you more than any sound could,
Because the night is when you meet the side of you,
The side that you keep locked away for all those around you to be sheltered from,
The side that you fear what really means,
But forever the side of you that understands it all,
But in all realization comes a restraint, thus is sleep,
In sleep the reality and truth is presented then promptly thrown away.
Dreams, with a hand on your shoulder then show us the door,
But only allow us the peep hole and through that even, we begin to make sense of why it all is, of who we all are.
But, dreams always vanish just as they are to open this door,
We're given the pleasure of looking in briefly,
But a gave never suited with enough time to take that first real step in.
We know a gilded idea of who we are, and even those around us.
We hunt for this partner who upon meeting, can't put together our puzzle but leaves them with a burning feeling to find out more,
They'll show no shame in looking to us for help for they too will feel that brand of unbridled trust and understanding that can only been told by the other's eyes.
The ones that ask for help in a way that we, in a childish way hope that they can because it's been a game running for so long that you just want a winner to move on to the next chapter with a whole new struggle,
But at least a struggle you can share, a struggle that teaches you the meaning of compassion and love. .
This reveals the help to solve the formula, the key, everything that shows that you actually are you,
And I, actually me.
A someone who will look you in the eyes and ask the same.
We as outsiders and those in search of anything want a challenge,
We want to finally believe in what we no longer know after years of becoming jaded, and hardened to the magnificence around us,
To believe in what we so painfully crave exists somewhere even when we've written all off and came close to settling.
We want something free of normal,
We want something free of what we think or are told we "want",
So there I look for you,
Here alone in this twilight hour,
I bleed into my consonants and vowels,
Hoping in some miracle out there you sit too,
Staring into the cool night, which is soon to be morning sky,
Not feeling sad, depressed, or off center,
But rather you're just staring into the quiet that is being alone,
Simply because it allows you to just be alone.
You'll be staring right into that alone and you'll stare at your hands,
In vision will become those the scars, imperfections, lovers and friends alike, stories and most of all mishaps of lost days that are almost beyond reprehension and alleviation,
The pain is not being able to fix a single part of any fully.
And you'll pick at those scars as I have done.
You'll pick until you feel yourself bleed into what it is that translates your soul in front of you,
You'll bleed all of whatever you can handle showing what's really inside,
Showing what you're actually made of where it matters.
You'll bleed just to know someone lives besides you,
And it's not just a painful feeling inside;
As that blood drains and the weight is lifted,
You notice another line,
Another stream that looks just as yours, just not quite the same
A stream of blood feeling just like yours, but oddly you get scared.
Not scared of this stream of feeling and pain for it's something you recognize and know so well,
But you're scared because you finally see you're not actually alone
It approaches where you let it all go and you can see it,
You, with eyes locked in watch the thick, the release,
Flowing from a source unknown to you,
A symbol of another place that to you feels like home;
Of the true pain and confusion towhere that blood came from,
Of the dark definition of the world that blood was made.
But as this all happens, and while deep inside of you,
From top to bottom; nothing makes more sense than to want to leave,
You can't help but to crave this new found blood's feels.
Just as it hits your stream, and words come alive to your wound,
Giving every scratch, cut, release, and openness a meaning,
It gives it all form.
A form and meaning that after sometime it's realized;
The blood and need for release you find exists and it's not just you.
This blood is red, warm, and once alive, just like yours.
This blood searches for more of itself to find function and purpose,
Just like yours.
Its's warm and reassuring like home after a long absence.
The two streams meet and slowly unite,
Yet never losing one another's form.
Never losing that piece that makes it unique,
That makes it special.
There they lye two different streams running dangerously close together,
Two different stories and collections of scars gone that had been picked open and let free.
They come to a slow stop meeting and almost battling for space after a long journey,
The streams clearly find comfort and hope in another,
Yet the fear of opening up and allowing for full crossing keeps them nearly one but still divided and mange to  stay at a precauciouos distance.
The two different types and shades of blood take affect.
While they never truly become one fluid stream,
They brush so close they are almost one,
Almost a perfect blend of synergy.
Though, many of the borders actually intertwine showing a unification of the two.
These borders finding common ground, similar feel and a greed purpose find the ability to unite together,
If not to make one but to take two and make it even stronger with the help of another.
It brings the two streams to be one yet after some time in a perfectly off tone brand of way,
They are two halves of a beautiful stream now as they grow together.
As you lye there and watch your stream become part of another,
You notice how beautiful it really is, how strong and full it looks,
You start to feel how beautiful two separate streams can be when given just through just enough similarity to naturally find each other,
Given by two perfectly dissociated powers who wanted something more,
Something real and sustainable but furthermore,
How this act of freedom and vocally silent streams,
Running at their own will and with nature's predestined track,
become something that neither stream was looking for but found fullness in finding.
How we'll find that these crossings can become something that balances our lost minds and spirits,
How it can be something that feels real and feels worth being a part of,
Not just for you,
But for someone else.

I sit letting my pen bleed my truth and the ink runs from the paper,
I smirk as it travels off into a world unknown on a path it chooses itself,
All I hope is out there you, whomever you may be, are sitting there,
Staring at your scars and growing tired of so much stream built behind your finger tips,
So much so that you pick the scars,
You study what's beneath them and then just like that,
The scars are open and you can witness your stream try and watch it also find its way home.
It flees from your release because the stream is no longer for you,
The stream is the part of you that you let go in hopes that another will find a way to deal with your stream as you with theirs.
For every stream there is a purpose,
Even if that purpose is simply to find and understand its truly not alone,

All I can hope, is that when the eye wanders from the vast sea we must battle and decipher,
That will turn to look and see a stream,
Running from both sides,
Connecting you,
And me.

our choices leave us little room to spare
as day and night in sequence go by fast
no decent case of dignity to wear

and vision that suggests more cause to fear
in the cold present than in the dim past
our choices leave us little room to spare

for reprehension at the sullen year
that it has been the truth is all miscast
no decent case of dignity to wear

we're  all frustrated all thrown in despair
all fearful we will hear the final blast
our choices leave us little room to spare

for any of the goods that we should bear
since our great goal will never be surpassed
no decent case of dignity to wear

when we confront the enemy or dare
the final gate that victory's the last
our choices leave us little room to spare
no decent case of dignity to wear

Now, let’s take it back to the start
Rewind back to that part
When you started feeling a bit less smart.
When you started seeing things fall apart.

It starts as a tired thought
after a battle fought
For some kind of restitution
Against their reprehension
In saying “death’s an intervention
To an epidemic that is the creation
Of you"
You, muffled of all loud passion

They graciously etched off your pride with a quarter
And so you fought, and they thought you cheeky
They sagaciously set aflame your hair with a lighter
And so you forfeit, and they thought you easy

It’s too easy, it being you,
To hate, to hit, to abuse
K to the Y to the S to the please
They plead you to seize
A moment to hate to hit to abuse yourself
Please, please, cry a “farewell”
To this world, to your mother, to their satisfaction
Who cares, you're just some teen, dumb and ******
You thought a bang would get you a reaction
But you’re way too easy

A flicker
The darkness parts
An expanse of black water
Slow ripples sway the boat
You are the sailor
Whispers call out from the dark
And speak your every deed
They know your name, your face
Everything
But of them, you know not
They torment you with reprehension
Remind you of your plights
And that, alone you are
Upon a sea of black
The ripples grow to cresting waves
The boat begins to sway
The whispering becomes a roar
Sharp, echoing through the dark
The voices scream
The boat rocks,
But still you are aboard
You clutch your lantern tight
And try to cover your ears
But days pass like this
Then weeks, then years
The resolve you once had
That innate, human determination
Has since dwindled
The screaming has blended
into your own thoughts
It is white noise
And still you are afloat
However, without hope
You plunge into the sea
Of your own volition
It is then you realize
The sea is thick, caustic
Not unlike rubber
To swim you must be strong
The sea has a will of its own
Currents form beneath your feet
It pulls you into the deep
You are drowning
The lantern's glow shrinks
Until nothing is left of either of you