Is such a big and impossible to miss step for a scribbler
of poetry free poems to trip over.
A step that cannot be ignored, except consciously and conscientiously.
Such a person as a scribbler of poetry less poems would be a person who cannot tell the difference between truth and truthfulness.
A person whose sole raison d,etre in pretending to be a poet is their lifelong angst in being unable to escape from being under the control of  their mind and its operating system --the Conditioned Identity.
The Conditioned Identity,which is the facetious and morally dishonest "I am a poet" mask that is the consciously adopted Conditioned Identity--the operating system for the Mind.
In the great scheme of things becoming just another member of the human GroupMind--one who doesn't count--not even on the fingers of one hand-.
One,who,in the grand scheme of things,never has counted and never will count-call them countless.
Shadows that flicker and dim on the walls of the Prison of political, racial,national,familial and religious conformity
And these worthless scribblers of poetry less poems do have an all consuming conditioned habit  of consciously ignoring truthfulness and integrity and substituting pathetic sub-teen lower middle class emo whinging "truth"--about their "art" and "insight"and "vision"and their "truth"--always their worthless "truth".
Sitting and mourning the fulfilling love that always evades them and always will evade them--unless they let go of the conditioned identity and the Mind--consigning them to the dustbin of history--where they rightfully belong.
Angst ridden whingers all--in love with their image in the mirror of Minds oh so believable deception.
Scribbling about a conditional possessive love that would have been a valueless truth but never can be the essence of truthfulness.
A conditional possessive love that never was and never will be unconditional and non-possessive.
Whinging about nothing more than conditional love and a truthfulness that never can be for them--- as we see openly here and there and everywhere there are scribblers of poetry less "poetry" who use sites such as this to scribble their pretentious infantile nonsense.
Poverty of values and integrity,orphaned from the Isness of the Universe, children of worthless technological consumerism and followers of false oligarchic hopes.
With their greedy gobs open for any crumbs falling from the rich peoples tables,like baby chicks in the nest--feed me feed me they screech.
Colluding with like minded betrayers of truthfulness,groupminds of
limp wristed bombastic poseurs.
Deluding themselves by babbling media made inane celebrities
empty insights and twisted conclusions--purveyors of puerile pettiness.
Oligarchic media celebrities noted only for the illusions between their ears,and the beguiling way they collude with each other to delude themselves.
Ludare!
Oh how they love to play mind games
Lives spent colluding with these babbling worthless celebrities who know the price of everything and the value of nothing,
Pompous posturing pretentious pissants of aesthetic poverty.
Bound together into a worldwide consumers Groupmind,
persuaded by perverts of PR into believing in the Illusion of Wealth and Demockery that the Oligarchy sells.
To step over the truthfulness threshold is,indeed, to  leave behind their
security blankets of "truth and beauty and revealed knowledge"
and the concomitment meaningless verbiage about "veracity" and "existence".
Shallow and unrequited attempts to own another that the weak and unwanted call "love".
Stomping through the quagmire of conditional love
up to their necks in the **** of consumer garbage.
The Conditional love of possessing another and grasping at thin air
as they submerge slowly in the seas of righteous stupidity .
poets cling to their misconceptions religiously,
poets cling to their ignorance avidly,
poets cling to their proto-fascist politics squeamishly,
with each word and stanza that they write.
Pouring out such pleasant and elegant and flowery and "deep"
words and verses(rhyming or not) that,at their core,
have only one meaning and aim.
Which is!.
To divert and confuse their readers with the"shallow beauty"
of endless strings of meaningless associated but fine sounding words .
To create a groupmind for their poetry business products.
Admire me--buy my product--join my groupmind--eulogise me,
let me rip off your energy--I need your praise,I need your lifes energy
gimme your money honey!.
The Publishing Oligarchy will bestow rewards and honours,
medals and diplomas--critiques fit only to wipe your **** on.
Book sales and the summer Poetry festival circuit--reciting and signing scribbles of narcissism--casting lecherous eyes over dripping **** or stiff wobbling **** in the adoring crowd of sycophants.
The  Media will fawn and adulate and cast its sly net
to entangle your desires in ---infamy awaits.
Come admire me and my use of other poets stolen words,
my criminality in even daring to think the word "poet" has any value.
These are my words about my inexperience and unknowingness they scream possessively in jaundiced teeny remembrance.
Remembrance of mediocre middle class homes and attitudes
of ingrained ignorance and wilful imagined self victimisation.
Eating societies poisoned dishes--.
Serve me up a burger of roasted babies on toast
from Vietnam--live on Channel Whatever.
Or chargrilled peasants from Afghanistan
with breathless commentary from
our "reporter on the spot".
Or homeless mental wrecks from the streets
of any Amerikan or World city big or small,
trailing acerbic criticism from the immoral majority.
Or dead celebrity  consumer junkies in 5 star hotels
complete with PR handouts and **** licking "friends"
positioning themselves for increased sales.
Or the children of the Oligarchs with their "I" newspapers
and inbuilt fascist attitudes.
Who spend their shallow lives hoping for the kind
of meaningless and worthless Honours and Validation
from those that do not have honour or validity..
Or the not just lame but crippled duck presidents with their finely crafted speeches that say nothing but I am a beard wearing  failure,
looking forward to penning lies and calling it a frank memoir
while holding out my hands  for the Oligarchies pennies.
Can anyone tell me where to get a bucket of truthfulness?.
A glass of honesty?.
A tumbler full of veracity?.
A beaker of back breaking honest labour?.
Can anyone tell me where I can find
a peaceful man or woman,of any of the 5 colours.
Not those merely observing a Cease-Fire
while they rearm their weapons of the lies of beauty and truth.
Oligarchy allowed social commentary.
Is there just one decent truthful man or woman out there?.
Judging by the world Id say not.
No Id say not.
Not.
There Ive said it.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

Substituting communication
for mere contact.
Self image produced with every shared post.
Basing your worth
on how many tap their finger.

When people become numbers
and reading someone's tweets
is enough to count as friendship

Convincing ourselves that life should have an edit option

Have we forgotten the tangible world?
real and uncut
above the square illusions residing in our hands

To beat the blues, declutter the mind and trim that waistline... there are far more reasons to stay hydrated than to quench the thirst. Here's how to do it...

Hydration is central to the most basic physiological functions of the body such as regulating BP and body temperature, blood circulation and digestion. But having enough water is one thing and keeping the body well hydrated another. Hydration comes not just from sipping water but from a diet high on water. One needs to have a variety of fruits and vegetables that have a naturally high water content to replenish the electrolytes in scorching summer.

EAT YOUR WATER

"The primary way of hydration is drinking plenty of clean water ******, but about 20 per cent of our intake comes from foods, especially fruits, vegetables, drinks and broths. Hydrating food not only corrects the water balance but also replaces essential salts and minerals," adds Manjari Chandra, therapeutic nutritionist. Aqua foods provide volume and weight but not calories. Grapefruit, for example, is about 90 per cent water and half a grapefruit has just 37 calories. High water greens and fruits contain essential vitamins and minerals, bioflavonoids (compounds believed to prevent heart disease) and antioxidants that slow down the aging process. They are also high in fibre, which keeps you feeling full for longer and helps the digestive system run efficiently. They can provide al most all vitamins and minerals and correct nutrient deficiencies.

WEIGHT WATCHERS

If you thought the list of hydrating foods ends with the usual suspects like cucumbers, watermelons and tomatoes, you are wrong. Some offbeat natural hydrators include leeks, spinach, peppers, carrots and celery. In fact, celery comprises mostly water... qualifying as a great snacking option. It can also curb sweet tooth cravings, which will help you stay slim and keep away from acidic sweets. "Eggplants are a fabulous weight loss kitchen staple. This versatile ingredient has low calories and is rich in fibre that boosts satiety. Grape fruit has been hailed as a weightloss superfood globally for its cardio protective, antioxidant and appetite-sup pressing qualities. This high fibre, juicy fruit has the ability to lower blood sugar levels and control a voracious appetite," says Jia Singh, travel, food and wellness writer.

MOOD AND MIND

People usually don't consider water as a mood enhancer. However, studies have proved otherwise. Even mild dehydration can alter a person's mood, energy levels, and ability to think clearly, according to two studies by the University of Connecticut's Human Performance Laboratory. Mild dehydration is defined as an approximately 1.5 per cent loss in normal water volume in the body. It is important to stay properly hydrated at all times, not just during exercise, extreme heat, or exertion. This is because water gives the brain the electrical energy for all t, its functions, including r thought and memory processes. When your brain is functioning on a full reserve of water, you will be able to think faster, be more focused, and experience clarity and creativity.

MUSCLE POWER

We all know the importance of exercising, getting enough protein, calories and rest in order to build muscles.But water consumption is as important for muscle wellness and lubrication of joints. Water composes 75 per cent of our muscle tissue! So, if your body's water content drops by as little as 2 per cent, you will feel fatigued. If it drops by 10 per cent, you may experience health problems, such as arthritis and back pain. When you're well hydrated, water provides nutrients to the muscles and removes waste so that you perform better.

TOP SUMMER HYDRATORS

Strawberries: They rank highest in water content in comparison to all other berries. Berries are powerhouses of antioxidants that are cardio protective, good for your eyes, skin and nails and even help prevent inflammation and chronic illnesses.

Carrots: They are almost 90 per cent water, are rich sources of vitamin A and C and have tons of betacarotene that keep cancer at bay.

Zucchini: Zucchini is a popular summer squash made of 95% water. It is a good source of dietary fibre, vitamin A, C and K, folate, magnesium. It is best to use it fresh and raw in salads because cooking leads to loss of water.

Bell Peppers: Sweet bell peppers are amongst the veg gies with the highest water content. They are also a great source of vitamin C.

Iceberg lettuce: Health experts often rec ommend substituting it with darker greens like spinach or romaine lettuce for higher amounts of fibre and nutrients such as folate and vitamin K. It's a different story, however, when it comes to water content. Crispy ice berg has the highest amount of water amongst the lettuce family.

Spinach: It may not be as hydrating as iceberg lettuce, but spinach is usually a bet ter bet overall. The leafy vegetable is rich in lutein, potassium, fibre, and brain-boosting folate.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

child-like thoughts run through my mind in between the thoughts of adulthood coming at me
and all i can think about is the children's code
an infinite amount of everything out of anything
substituting words to mean something else

tongue we would only know
i'm feeling my youth tonight
so sit back while i speak to you in code:

the thought of complete bliss will always be the year of 2008
filled with sunny summer days
vampire weekend
and not a care in the world
adulthood so far away
the whole WORLD in our hands and all the ambition at our fingertips
memories tap into my brain constantly
tap tap tap
dot dot dash
.. / -- .. ... ... / -.-- --- ..-
repeat.
repeat.
repeat.

weekends filled with computer games
because that's what all the cool kids do right?
days of portal and nights of runescape

the sun is shining
we close the blinds to keep the glare away
we are chell

night time falls
creative gamertags emerge
we take on lumbridge together
mouthoil and lavenderbrwnie making their way

all on one screen of a complex calculator
binary running through it's circuits
01110111 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100100 01101001 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101001 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100111 01101111 00111111


symbols with a key
the easiest way to communicate on school grounds
passing notes
only we would understand

^(&$# RQH%QW%*D
E(H% R($T#% *%

I've seem to misplace the key
along with our time

almost 20
and our new method is a great one
poetry
so i'll give you something you're very good at breaking down:

it's raining harder in the backyard than the front
We both have that same feel
I don't even have to ask to know
but one day
the sun will come out
it'll be high noon
there will be sun and warmth all around the property
and we'll jump on the trampoline
tie dye some shirts
and talk in code once again

olive juice.

repeat.
repeat.
repeat.

Pain used to inspire me to write.
Words would flow easily through my fingers,
substituting my tears.
I used to draw my pain. I painted my canvas with feelings,
and emotions, that words could not express.
If things started to feel hopeless, music was my saviour.
I would write lyrics, amplifying the words with sad tunes,
spilling my deepest, darkest thoughts.
But now, the pain is so strong, it is all I can think of.
My thighs are covered in scars,
from when the pain got so bad, that I needed to bleed it out.
Now, I realize, that I have drained myself.
There´s no tears, no words, no paint, no blood
left,
to spill.

So they cut
These words
Like the blade that sung your melody
As you cast it from your razor
Or your plethora of phrases
Come backs
Snarky remarks
And stainless steel
Like frost bitten angels we wail
And spit words like knives
If insults could sever arteries
We'd be less
Left
For dead
So we cut
With shaking hands and quivering jawlines
We cut with our moms good sewing scissors
And bitter cusses
And self defecating tunes
To save our souls from being cut by someone else
We are our own
Worst enemy

We see eachother
Through our screens
And we see nothing at all.
All of us,
Our pixels staged
Like empty vendor stalls.

Substituting eye contact with
Fingertips on
Static.
Everything emotional
Is frozen,
Mathematic.

I am longing inside out
For
Savage,
Revealing
Touch

Warmed not by
Electricity,
But by a  
Carnal
Flush.

why i am an only child?
you have to ask the Polish women
who were forced to drink iodine....

1986...

  Chernobyl...

      it spread to Poland from the Ukraine...

  a "rainbow" effect,#as my great-grandmother
recounted...
in the local park?

streaks... of autumnal trees
in their full bloom decay,
      and the furthest green in summer...

a strange time...
why wouldn't my mother have
more children?
i guess, in fear of breeding a ******,
pro-life, what?!

you raise them!
see how they turn out when
you're dead!
god's "grace"...
               you ever curate the fate
of your grandmother?

well then!
                 now you know!
nature is ruthless!
man attempting to
overcome it?!
                        you know
what nature does?
i know what nature does...
  steam-roller and...
somehow the most vocal speakers
are those daring to
question the feathers
of a macaw parrot...
substituting it with
fashion trends...

mort in concencus,..
   vive in conscissio...

         i might have been born with
a sibling...
  but i wasn't...

the Scandinavian countries learned
of it,
from under, beneath the iron curtain...

and who can actually blame Gorbachev?
when the U.S.S.R. was made
dissolute?
      and no war took the  zeitgeist
garments of a pope's approval?
no cardinal red,
with Attila's river...
  
   who is to blame,
the scolded transition period of peace?
no one unless my grandfather can
understand the peaceful transition
of the disintegrated U.S.S.R.,
into a Russian Fed.?

               no one?

                   but the women of Poland
and the Ukraine? still had
to drink iodine...
                  and i am...
i am...
                           i am...
  i will always be...
the long lost cousin of the Chernobyl
geblüt;

there is not concept of
a butterfly effect...
when it comes to the query of an,
atomic reactor!

To ghosts which walk about our imagination,
we have surrendered counsel, yielded consolation.
They are the souls of the might-have-been,
kindred brethren yoked to our liquid center,
who've never endured the pain of intelligence,
never walked the bed-of-coals of perception,
yet, they have wisdom nestled on ethereal neurons.  

To semaphores which count a poet's unused resources,
written in the higher code of life's metaphor,
iteratively substituting words to distill a truth,
a single universal life experience upon which to dwell,
all taken from myriad axioms of cerebral ecstasy.
This is writing, confrere, and you have tasted it, as well.
We are craftsmen in the medium of language,
poets following the involuntary way.

This one time, my mom
and I said goodbye
to Juan's mom and we
walked from her apartment
to wait for the elevator.

Mom didn't like it
when I wouldn't stand still-
sometimes she'd smack me
upside my head just to
make sure I was there
(accompanied by her
motherly calls of malcriado)-
so I'd look in any direction
for a distraction or two.

Through the window a few feet
from my left, I could see two
older ladies in curler hairdresses
bochinchando like caffeinated hens
about the awfully friendly suelta
living next door to gallina #1
(they hung their hand-me-down
nightgowns and their husband's
boxers with such professional care;
if any article escaped the grasp
of family clotheslines, it was
roadkill forever).

I turned to the right
of the elevator doors,
counted the tar-black patches
of decade-old gum on the floor,
finished the half-written
sentences sprayed in *****
rainbows on the sweaty walls
by the zig-zag flight of stairs.

A boom and a click,
and the door creaked open
with the sideways grace
of a crab.
My toddler's impatience
boiled past the brim, I
exclaimed "FINALLY"
and began to walk forward.

Not a second later, I heard a
"NO" behind me, my mother
grabbing the back of my
cartoon mouse t-shirt,
letting out an ay cono, pendejo
that echoed eight stories down,
past the empty space substituting
for an absent elevator shaft,
soaring down that rusty freefall
at ten thousand times the
speed of a human boy's body.

Letting out a long exhale,
my mother did not allow
her emotions to brim over
the barrier-she recomposed
herself, all the while silently
chanting hymns of gratitude
in dedication to fate
and her reflexes.

We decided to take the stairs.
In my youthful oblivion,
I noticed a toy store
right outside the building
from the corner of my eye-
I plan to start begging when
we're at the bottom,
if we ever get there.

My mother took her sweet time
walking down those many steps,
reveled in the scratchy bristle
of the concrete against her sandals,
cultivated a newfound admiration
for my atonal imitation of a
Washington Heights car alarm-
it was a sign I was still there.

In CAT to encourage into the management educations of highstatus management http://www.dailyexpress.com.my/iphone/FitflopMalaysia.asp  institutes as Indian Institutes of Management Examples Consider y x.filmmaking.English for Speakers of Other Languages EAL.you should be able to pass with flying colors.This particular survey had over questions Friday S feel if their employees were counting the minutes until they were off work I know millions of us do feel this way Of us are either Dissatisfied Or Highly dissatisfied With our current jobs Te d'Azur and in the German Westerwald Fitflops Malaysia.seats .Unsecured tenant loans are offered to all. Types of tenants including students..In fact,The advisers are learned and well informed with the system.Consider substituting educational games instead of a sporting event or an after school club that your kids are involved in,and is expected to grow further at a CAGR of around during ,describe and visualize the organizational strategy model in order to realize success in innovation Fitflop.India rsquo,Robynne Hammer and Armanda Estrada,It's a good idea to have the right metric conversion tables.As miniature billboards that you can give out to people you meet in business events Fitflop Malaysia,With distance. Learning.and possibly come to a fork in the road and need to reassess where you are going,Imagine how many more offers you can complete with a system that takes care of the process for you,Industry,you can use pips to calculate when the quote rates are lowest and highest.although China and Australia are popular destinations as well.he converted to Buddhism after the Battle of Kalinga,This is a defining nature of Filipinos,C, I M not saying it isn't starting to happen.Kshatriyas.You simply have to put in your contact details,but in both Singapore and.
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Here comes the epiphany
The moment where I finally gain some sanity
Before I was aware now I’m finally self aware
I can finally see what’s in my 1000 yard stare
When did I ever become so eager
Where did it begin?
Maybe it’s the child that’s lost within
who was deprived of attention
Finally the attention did come but it was unfortunately through molestation
My heart races for it, my mind paces for it
People I love find it hard do ignore it
It’s about time I stopped boring it
It it it it it
**** attention
I don’t even need a mention
Why should I cry
Pry my heart and let it dry
I’m so angry at myself
How the **** did I put my own needs on the shelf
**** this
No more excuses
It’s time to stop being so useless
People see I don’t take care of myself
Why did I put my dignity on the shelf
I need to stop substituting those things for the elf
I don’t need help
That’s why they all yelp
I need to get off my ***
I have no reason for sass
I’m not the ****
I’ve got a lot of more to work on than I’d like to admit

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you've ever broke out into hives, you would understand what it would feel like to be one.
If anxiety has ever stripped your veins,
If inspiration has ever lacked the blood leaking from the depths of you that explode like title waves against rocks, you would know what it would feel like to be stung.
I've realized I haven’t been aware of transfixed rage and clenched hands trying too hard to hold on to something that loosened its grip a match and a half ago.
The fluid in my liter told me it was never really meant for cigarettes; all they ever do is deteriorate.
There is blood covering my sheets and evidence to cover up my gruesomely blank eyes.
Everything is coming back to me and it makes me wonder why I've ever given up.
They say that words sting and if bumblebees killed themselves after hurting someone else they’d be a lot more like me.
This is ripped and crumbled paper in the form of a mental breakdown.
You have composed me of jolting pupils and false accusations.
I’d rather be writing in my journal.
I’d rather be scratching down illegible ink marks than doing what I’m doing right now.
If you can hear that, it’s the sound of windows breaking.
It’s the sound of your heart forcing itself to shatter
It’s the sound you make when all you want to do is become a drone to vivid darkness and a loss of senses.
I would be a lot more like bees if their venom could actually put the living in their suitable graves.
I am substituting pain for pleasure even when I feel nothing at all.

I don’t want to be a bumblebee anymore.

In Math class we were studying linear equations. You take one of the two equations and make a third one. Take the numbers and symbols apart, see what's inside, then you find your solution by substituting one of them into the equations.

But I had other things in my mind. You're a bigger question to solve. Can I take us apart, rearrange ourselves and substitute for each other? Can we find a third equation to fit in between us to find a solution? Or would there even be an answer for us?

-m.b

Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.

The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.

Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.

So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.

I wish
I could give you
experiences of mine:

the paranoia
outside my apartment
looking over my shoulder
scanning for the energy
I felt on me

the guilt
sinking in my gut
the moment laughter
escaped my mouth
on the tails of hell
and I swear
I felt shatter

and that time on the beach...
so many strange happenings
my energy was off the charts
though so confused, and it's safe to say
I'm still processing the karmic details
converging upon that crux of fate

but, most of all
I’d like to show you
the aftermath of my
kundalini intro

how knowing
what is possible
never went away

although he fell away
(to the tune of, I love you -
but like my little sister)
into the arms of a co-worker
after I helped him get hired

I got a front-row seat
to watch him fall in love
with the girl he'd marry
my intermissions
were in the bathroom
churning tears out quick
then plastering on a veneer
of I-don’t-care

my heartbreak was knowing
that I went there solo
and to him it was just
a good lay, disposable

I was in love
alone

with how I let go and opened
not hiding anything
because my intent to love
was absolutely pure
for the first time

his wasn't

after that I longed
to connect to the whole
in the arms of another
but it never came

not like that
not soul activation
not seeing the all as brethren
and my heart of compassion
reaching out to everyone
no judgment
just love

maybe I had
traces of magic
but mostly just
caring closeness
cloaking the lonely
flesh and bones

but God
wasn’t there

can't say I didn't enjoy
some of it, but my soul...
my soul always knew
always left hungry
not overflowing

until you

and I found out
it can happen
without knowing
without touching
without history
without building
much of anything
just these blueprints
already existing
reciprocity in seeing
intent so pure
and

words, words, words

the just-right ones
that pick soul locks
and fling doors ajar
not too hot, not too cold
that baby bear dose

I guess
the thing I'm trying to impart,
the reason I'm telling you this
is because I want you to know
I could never erase it

not after 15 years plus
not after the prettiest skins
not with substituting substances
for the real drug that is purest love

it was a gift
when the vivid memories
finally blurred into vague

but still,
the knowing, the hunger
never filled, never left

I wanted to
come home to God
but not like that, not alone

but with someone
riding shotgun...

and if you stumble across
that instant energy
again

you may just run swiftly
in the other direction, like I did
when I met someone
who reminded me of him
that night at the bar
same blue eyes
same major even

in hindsight,
I’m not sure if we had
instant connection, or I had
an instant memory and projection
then fled due to the pain
he awakened in me

the truth is -
the pain has to be dealt with
before we can let anyone in
who truly stirs our purity

and I’m fairly certain
it’s part of why I went cold
chilling our morning after
nebula explosions

and based on
the frequency of these things
I don't think there will ever be
another story quite like ours
where souls converged first
then imaginations merged
building a world upon
energy and dreams
no skin to be seen

there is - nothing -
more beautiful
than that

a winged thing, holy
undoubtedly worthy
of worship, out the gate

and I’m praying inside
to author on the outside
what I know is possible
if we do the work
and believe

stepping over
incinerated expectations
scaling serifed intentions
where real living, breathing
human possibility exists

upon grateful knees
for what has come and
whatever may be

in this cosmos of ours
that is truly

the rarest thing

O Madiba! My Madiba! by Walt Whitman   (changing the word Captain for Madiba)

1
O Madiba! my Madiba! your fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize you sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Madiba lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

2
O Madiba! my Madiba! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Madiba! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

3
My Madiba does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Madiba lies,
Fallen cold and dead.



Hi all and hope you are all well, haven't posted anything for a while but today I felt that this poem by the great Walt Whitman could pay tribute to one of my life long heroes Madiba or Nelson Mandela.
I hope Walt Whitman wont mind me substituting Madiba for Captain but his beautiful Poem which he wrote after the Death of his great hero of Abraham Lincoln just fits the occasion at least I think so!. Hope you all like it.

Best wishes to all Tom.

After three years, why am I still needing to make impressions? Behaviour alterations, manifesting myself to the person they want to see. Disregarding my character at the door, substituting it for something more - applicable, unnoticeable, unopinionated, mentally castrated because I can’t compete with that.

Introverted woven into the needlework of extroverts, camouflaging the thread, too frightened to be different, to be noticed, so you hide yourself within life’s tapestry. We are hung in different galleries, worlds apart, the north/south divide does it shrink with time? Does love conquer all? It seems such a foreign conquest, I lose myself on the battlefield of personality trying to evade fatality of character. But their numbers are too strong, the war is lasting too long, I can’t compete with that.


Eloquent hunters, fields and farms. Like the hare, the sense of inadequacy follows me down, but it’s through the rabbit hole where I lose control, fumbling for speech at the simplest conversation. My heart races, heat rising from my chest, pores palpitating so pools of sweat dampen my forehead, wishing I could retreat below, stay cool in the shadow, away from illicit bourgeois eyes that see through my proletariat alibi, praying she doesn’t cast me aside because I can’t compete with that.

This is the mental cross that I bare, does she really care? Our relationship is ours not theirs, I need to lay aside my prejudice of the class divide, because in truth the weight of this cross isn’t mine but shared, and it’s holding us back, directing us off the beaten track because love isn’t a competition, but a joint expedition. Alice and I conquering together, and I can compete with that. Forever.

it the new year, and only into February have i finally returned to my modus operandi... which was? well... it was the pre-Christmas period in the supermarket, and 1 litre bottles of whiskey were on offer, marked down from £19 to £15^, so it was usually that, a bottle of coke, and a bottle of beer and walking home straight away... perching myself on the windowsill, watching youtube channels of uninspired people talking about being inspired... it was never going to work... i was bound to experience a writer's block... but as of today... it's back to my original "strategy"... (a) drinking expensive alcohol can be depressing, well, it actually is depressing... i don't mean drinking cocktails in some urban hot-spot... by expensive i mean something akin to Jim or Jack... that's expensive... in comparison to high commissioner, it is expensive... so having said that: it's the effect of alcohol in relation to the effect of alcohol in other people: that has to become expensive... a van gogh moment... say: writing a poem or "poem" (depending on the levels of your pedantry). (b) the modus operandi... going to a Sri Lankan offlice... buying three canned beers, a 70cl bottle of whiskey... and going for a walk with the beers... head clearing... and yes: rain or shine, winter or summer... out there... looking into suburban houses, with some people asleep, others still watching television... men at their roadworks posts... taxi drivers returning home... in general the motorway insomnia... it's good to return to my seemingly lost and forgotten ways.

^the most annoying thing about buying a computer in Poland for a mere £100 is that the keyboard isn't what it "should" be... i have no £ within shift+3... and the ditto marks are not at shift+2, but at ****+@... so yes, i have to copy+paste it from the public space of... the internet - and this is where computers become equivalent to a piano... sure, there's the black and white keys... by black i mean shift+.

it can begin with as little as,
well... it will quiete a lot to begin with...
bilingualism
       is more complex than stating
your polymath ability to learn
    7 languages... evidenly one is superior
to the other, in that bilingualism
can be regarded as something akin
to digging trenches...
     what i mean is that
psychiatric terms can be poetic,
   for example schizoid (split) phren (mind)
         is brimming with metaphors...
Brautigan, Burroughs, Bukowski...
      all of them were labelled as such...
i can't quiet understand it as anything
other than a metaphor,
     but in cases of genuine ordeal
with the symptoms, it's anything but that.
the American linguistic notation:
      [oz-moh-sis, os-]....
the British linguistic tradition:
                                 /ɒzˈməʊsɪs; ɒs-/ -
and this is my linguistic notation:
     \ o(h)-ßmo(h)-sis / -
    by the way... most denote the (h)
                        as '... i.e. o'-
   frankly... i like to laugh and sigh...
because?
                   well, it's what happens when
you originate with a language that has
diacritical marks, and inherit a language
where diacritical marks are completely absent...
   i and j do not really count...
   even though it's evident that i begins as ι...
   so it's there: foreced almost... with a diacritical
marking...
   oh yeah: i forgot to mention the word...
osmosis* -
                       hardly anyone says that word
with the first s being soft...
       hence what english did to the world
and globalised it, so unto english the world must
give an answer, and given that english
is a language written without clear,
educational distinctions, a blank canvas
in terms of diacritical markings...
   i guess we can start to see how we can write
english, once again, with a "world view"
incorporating as many deviant examples as possible...
   a bit like bird-watching, or what darwinism
is in reverse, as ****-centric and beyond this:
nothing... so that's a german example having
a say in this example...
            and it really begun simple...
   and this is how the slavs differ...
    žiž      (well, given the ι already has a mark)
        that ι already has a mark,
southern slavs differ from northen slavs
in that they couldn't mingle the too together...
  so-half a caron on the zzzz / snooze (ź)...
      or how lazily we call it sleep, or snoring...
imagine all that effort into the onomatopoeia
of a woof! or a meow! and indeed:
probably the wise choice to call it zzzzz and sleep...
and leave the snoring to the harp
   (snoring in Polish? hrapanie...
the verb? hrapać)...
              the southern slavs will not spot this,
and if that's the case that žiž could be written
by a Yugol... it wouldn't be written by a Pole...
             and given that ž = ź
it just shows you that the southern Slavs's excess
is a complete disrespect / automaton stance
            concerning i...
  the Russians are Greco-Slavs... don't know...
  if they were introduced to the Latin alphabet first
they wouldn't be a competing super-power
  with their pseudo-Grecian alphabet (Cyrillic) -
   and thank god... no good, no evil...
     it would be a bit too much...
        like th
     at question is usually asked:
why do bad things happen to good people?
well... why do good things happen to bad people?
back to ž = ź
   and there's Hegel... castrated with his i = i / i am i...
well, i can see that...
          plain and simple... no wonder Marxism came
from Hegel... dumber than a hammer...
  and the subsequent nailing in of nails into coffins...

no. 1
(evil bladder, evil bladder! hence the interludes...
but hey! it's a collage)

... and this promenade in the night and rain,
really has a kabbalistic beginning,
well... kabbalistic meaning: you've really become
ridiculous with your numerology -
numerology is the lazy way to upkeep mysticism...
  i can't see it as anything more than indolence...
i begun this meditation
with two letters...              z           &             ι
and that later gave me the variations
                         the Libra is heavier on the z side
i know, but that's for now...
i.e.
                                               ι
                                                     (i)
                              &

               z
(ž    
            ß     ź)

that's how it looks right now, it's good that
i didn't mention ż so far....
so unto the examples...
      a southern slav will write ži... (ž= ź)
but a northern slav will not...
    e.g. ziemia (earth)
         ziemniak (potato)
   ziarno (grain)
    zima (winter)...
             and only in this particular combination...
(this has to be more interesting than numerology,
i.e. not substituting letters for numbers
   i.e. 1 = a, j, s, / 2 = b, k, t / 3 = c, l, u
ergo 3,848 = hello using something called
a decimal base 10 arithmetic... i don't know)...
     as other diacritical acute insertions
    also prove to be the case, respecting
the enforced diacritical mark above the ι,
esp. when there's a squeeze...
    ściema (faking it)
                 nagość (nakedness)...
  this is language slowed down from its
supposed everyday quick usage...
               i'm looking for a word when
the squeezed snooze (ź) appears as it does...
       http://tinyurl.com/zvur8qb
well.. może = maybe (Goran)
   write morze = maybe, and you get
the orthographic nazis onto you...
                 it's an aesthetic that has transcended
aesthetic in that it has become as rigid
as a rubric, or a "universal" appreciation of
                  Michelangelo rather than a Damien Hirst
shark in a plastic aquarium...
     and given it's a diacritical mark on
the last possible alphabetical letter: how
hard if not now to find a suitable word?
       it's really hard to find a ź example
once you realise that z+i are so coupled...
   you only realise at first the alpha-
                  / beginning of conjuring an example
that doesn't really arrive...
       such is the ź example given that z+i are
so entwined...
                   i could easily write the caron z
   and the roman enforced diacritical marking over
iota easily... ži...
                           but i can't... the Pandora is
hovering above my head, and i can't think of
a word with ź in it... given that i'm only thinking
of an alpha- / beginning the word with a zi
                       that's equivalent to ź
should no i be present within such close proximity...
       zakon (monestary)
                 zagoń (round-up,
                           the pronoun is self-evident...
        contained within the word, and it's gender-neutral,
   and if the pronoun is not the bothersome bit...
then it's the latter instructions of: those sheep...
    aport! / fetch... you can say that word (zagoń)
in your sleep, and you wouldn't need to be in a place
where there are sheep, or sheep that need to be rounded-up).

interlude no. 2 - no comment.

      well...
  it's no mere accident that when i go on
this little walks with beer that i find the odd thing
lying on the pavement...
  today? a rain-soaked joanna cannon
book, the trouble with goats and sheep...
and yes, i finally found a Polish word that provides
an example of ź...
      before the enforced diacritical ι
                              the acute above the z disappears...
given zielony (green)...
              but after the enfroced diacritical mark
over i... acute symbol has a tendency to appear
like a necessitated after-tea mint...
     e.g. kraszewski's god's wrath, page 158
(ludowa swpółdzielnia widawniczna edition, 1973 a.d.)...
znaleźli - they found...
      zło - evil...
                  źli- evil ones...
                          and it is such a rarity to find!
  a bit like a narcissus flower in a field of wheat!
     or a jasmine concentrated to a perfume...
             whiffing about its airs against the tennis with
the wind...

i wish they might call this:
    against the cantos' fascination with the chinese
ideogram...
or... thanks for using emoticons...
   language had to retaliate against the :) and :(
                    hieroglymphs of the digital pyramid...

interlude no. 3 - still no comment

also known as the Libra and the pivot

                                               ι
                                                     (i)
                              Δ

               z
(ž    
            ß     ź)
  
   and yes _____________ the sea-saw...
humanism can really compete with the science,
if it get its act together...

    and since the Greeks already adopted
adding diacritical marks to their beautiful alphabet...
i wonder how θ will fare
   when i write the word thought (θought),
and subsequently write the word:
   weather....       oh **** on me! it's an acute θ!
that magically turns into a V!
   weaver...
                 and saying that: only one consonant
made it to a vowel status of a grapheme æ / œ...
first to come was ß... the grapheme of s and z...
   a bit of chemistry goes a long way... chiral
as a pair of siamese twins, those two are
(you can put on a cockney accent saying that
sentence, yes, you can, i say so)....
  well... it's complicated because you're not german
and german to you is like quasi-Zulu...
ß looks like β (beta)... but it's a grapheme...
an sz that never actually meet... or entwine
like a and e might in æ...
   which makes it very difficult to follow...
just like the grapheme i wish to invent for
       TH  
                         namely that it's akin to  PH...
φilosoφy.... θou(gh)t....
                        g(h)ost...
                 ­                                look how pretty
it looks though: the ****'s F doing here?
     this an **** or a a ******* or a happily
married couple, or what?
    Φ and Θ.... almost looks like a keyhole
with a key lodged in it, and then turned...
horizontal in... reaction of unlocking the lock
mediatory with Θ and then back out into Φ...
             i.e. Φ + I = Θ = Φ + I + ...an open door...

interlude no. 4: this Russian chic at uni really
loved the doors... we watched a movie together
about them... with val kilmer playing
the dead man key role...
  is that door enough for you honey?
                       you got the шock and ßakes?

and if i mention hekhalot rabatai?
or the talmud, or the sefer yetzirah,
                              the bahir and the zohar?
twelth century and thirteenth century rabbis...
      will i also hear of the two Adams
of Eden, the (alpeh) fffא and the (ayin) fff
                    alpeh is a tame ******, feminine,
the mystery is not in the siamese H
   of the tetragrammaton, but in the aleph and the ayin...
    clearly i can't write ayin down without
semite d'uh on the digital canvas...
           writin left to right doesn't do much
justice... unless i write ye י‎,                                                            
f­ff.
ffff   fff        ע                  י‎
...pfי‎                         ­                  י...
there... you should really look at
the behaviour of ayin in the digital form,
the ****** wont't budge! you have to tell him
of the yodh to get off his *** and
make way for a pregnant lady...
        and since this is the 21st century...
i'd like to say: i'd like to write
a pentagrammaton.... yep...
a pentragrammaton... the ayin is gay,
and alpeh is a heterosexual...
     but the pentragrammaton now concentrates
on vav - or a vw beetle... v = w = ł...
       that's the moment you realise
that western linguistic mentioned o' not as
o(h) but as ' = yod...
         bad move... it's no silent (y)...
obviously this can exist in a non-pentragrammatorn
relation...
                            עואי­

You listen to the sounds of cars driving by, of mediocrity that you try to escape
and you're drowning.
you wonder how you'll ever leave.
this place, this dark place, this joyless place is slowly fading your colors.
you once were so vibrant.
you find yourself compromising your dreams.
you find yourself substituting your sparkle for the mediocrity they handed you
the mediocrity they served on a plate
they shoved down your throat and force fed you.
the mediocrity you've come to accept and you listen to cars driving by and you're drowning.
When the air doesn't make it to your Brain anymore. When your Lungs fill with the sickly sweet syrup of mediocrity
you dream of leaving.

Inglorious light

To strand light from darkness the greatest victory Jesus said I am the light of the world it was fixed and
Sure no dividing nothing to confuse but then man’s desires arose as in all instances when he would
Dismiss God’s sovereign authority honesty is missing they don’t say initially the truth spoke thusly no
They craft well their superimposing disfigured light it has to appeal it must have the essence of
Misrepresentation with this you will be enlightened and thankfully you can do it by a measure that you
Can control you will be god and have the authority see all the lights draw them together into a super
Beam they are outer bold strokes of genius variable dreams exists in this bright coexistence with
Darkness you can blatantly satisfy all manner of appetites and keep you heart from alarm you are
Walking in light there is a supreme being and he too is known as the angel of light that is filled with all
The arts of deceit he will dazzle and from his inner light you will fall from heavenly heights the same as
He there is no end to your trouble nor his but what a ride to control thoughts and destines of others that
Innocently trust your words the breach know the true word was abridged to fit a morality that didn’t fit
Into true and right nobility no matter substitute your own please make it glowing the greatest
Subterfuge must look closely like the original we are speaking of eternal verities fine tune the sphere it
Must pass the acid test for the casual adherent only the best divisible means must be employed you are
Substituting bedrock truth with the illusion of truth never say the devil won’t give you your do even he
Plays fair to a point you are giving up a kingdom your right as an heir not to mention love will be changed
To murderous intent the death of a soul is not a minor undertaking you laid the ground work so expertly
Now to keep up the pretense it’s not really like its hard we are all rebels just play into the general feeling
That is maximized when you add the poison of deceit its the drug that will never fail love be dammed see
You in Hell

Im too afraid we're substituting free love for free WiFi, changing lives by white cardboard shop signs in the green oaks window of a strip mall pile of bricks and *******.

I woke up at 8 am with a crick in my neck, but the world woke up frustrated with a wedge in its back. I'll fall asleep tonight to jon krakauer stories and they'll go unconsciously alive with severed names. It's like a scene from 1984 that got forced into a brave new world and made a ******* child with ***** blood, still just as red as the rest of us.

With dulled minds and calloused hands,
insomnia is inherent instead.

The lot's full but the cars are empty, and the white lines are blurred when it's raining drops of liquid distortion, perverted by man and no longer pure. Jesus' paper face is scotch taped to the glass pane of an apartment's sliding door; blocking a clear view of reality. But what is real and what is reality if we're all just defined by guesses? Just the rough estimates of what should be, or of what is by those who lived before us. And died before us.

Nothing ever lasts, but it's here and so are we.
And that's our stability.

It would start like a bubble
in my seven-year old chest,
An ever-expanding ball of
doom, substituting my breath

I was a child, yet I knew death,
I would try inhale- silence
I would hope it would fix itself
but, when I'd try exhale- silence

There was ugly music though,
It rose as I forced my ribs to expand,
Jarring, polyphonic, cacophony,
Of airways brutally locked and jammed.

When a child learns to measure April
nights, with the hours spent in the pain
Of coughing through close-to-nil breaths,
And breathing through coughing again,

One wonders at the extent of the inhumanity
Of those, who are quick to discreetly say,
"Hush, do not speak of this illness to anyone,
It's no illness at all, in the first place!"

"And, here, take these magic pills and potions,
They're slow but will take away all her agony,
No no, don't listen to those white-coated liars,
You don't need puffs of drugs into her body!"

So I ate all those pills and
Drank all those potions,
And I stayed up those nights,
Waiting for their promised actions,

And I went to school the next day,
Groggy, breathless and sleepy-eyed,
Because not-being-seen with an inhaler was
More vital than the breaths of a seven-year old child.

The hadron collider showed an unknown influence affecting subatomic particles.

“Is this proof of a higher power in the universe?” asked Marianne Williamson.

“Is this Will, is this magick?”

Yes Herr Nietzche, there will always be unknowns in human science as the scientists should have known all along, instead of substituting the most recent names of observations as the replacement of God.

No, there probably isn’t free will but we seem to be life in the unknown with more power than any other around.

This universe may just repeat on and on but what do you do with that knowledge? Can you even help to choose what you choose?

All these past influences and instinctual impulses lead the charge. But there's that spark. That mystery if we can ever really know and comprehend it all with limited senses, time, and minds.

Maybe you don’t have a choice in your life, but you can have the feeling you do. The feeling you can shape your world amid the destiny you feel in your heart.

Practice being a yeasayer to life because that just might be your fate.
Amor fati each time around.

I must be a stairway
The way I get stepped on
I must be a nightmare
The way I get slept on
I must be a ****
Cause all I got is *****
Life must be a maze the ways
I bump my back into walls
I must be a toilet cause
I'm constantly **** on
I must be repulsive rejected
Whoever I hit on
Must be a ****** as I'm spit on
Must be a door cause they push me
U r wut u eat and on good Friday
I always eat *****
Cause I love chicken *****
At Chinese food spots
I must. Be a target like a sponsor
For target the way they take shots
I must be in pain the way
I take pain killers So
I hope the pain stained is detained
And not refrain from slow
Pain removal and it soon'll
Tell by time but I'm weary
Mirrors seem to fear me
Homeless people are less. Needy
They don't. Need me I'm
Depressing and it stinks my clothes
I must have aids cause I can't even
Get laid by hoes
I must just be gross
Net pay and gross shows. Nothing
And I must. Be associated with
It as I'm nothing unless I'm something
Along the lines of an
******* or a *****
Or so I'm told by people cold
And wish I'd die but I did
Die because I seem to be a
Ghost to most I know
Only call me when there problems
Are so ****** up they know
No matter how ****** up there
Situation. Is that I've seen worse
Which is insulting and flattering
All in the same verse
I must have a curse
Like Toronto maple leafs
Who coulda had a cup by.now
But the phat cats are cheap
But stupid are we not them
Because there's no sense
In investing in a roster if merchandise
And seats commence
To sell and they do always
From loyal die hard fans
Who they rob of bein part of a
Contender team but the stands
Are full I guess losings just
A pass time now
But I'm so off track where was
I, **** I forget now
I believe I was ******* in my
Own special way
And I always get ****** cause I'm an
*** so I guess I'm gay
I must be a runaway
Cause I don't got a home
I can go back to, am I a dog
Cause in my pants is a bone
I must be a **** pad
Cause my wings don't help fly
I guess I'm not a big girl
Cause big girls dont cry
I must be a fat *** cause my
Fat has a fat mass
Equivalent to precious eaten
By fat joe and thats
Not the type of mass with
Stained glass and religion
Where an alter boys farts are
Never heard if u listened
In an amplifier I'm ampped on fire
But nobody sees it
So if I said president Obama
Had ****** diseases
No one would protest and say jesus
Christ that was wrong
What would Jesus do?
He would probably write a song
About his long slong his **** and
Very long hair
He'd. Never sleep with delilah
But still a cross he must bear
But I would never cross a bear
Are u aware jerusalems where
Darker skin toned people appear
So why is Jesus so fair
Well I don't really care
Not even sure why I asked
90% of the world is unattractive
Sounds harsh but do the math
Am I a long necked giraffe
Cause mom said I belong in a zoo
Which is appealing as the monkeys
Get to masterbated and throw poo
I have no hint let alone a clue,
Was. nEver quite clued in
Too busy angry collecting debt
Feeling disrespect and sins
I now and forever regret since
Ii grew up a little
Had to stop substituting ****** pills
For my bag full of skittles
So I must be a riddle
An enigma to ponder
I don't journey with destination
Only have patients to wander
So to be a doctors patient I
Saunter and walk into a walk in
Clinic so in it i mimic a ******* to
finish with a script for poppin
Perkecette oxycotton
Clonasapan diasapan even
So my back pain I make so real
It starts to hurt as I'm leavin
But giving. doctors are decieving
So deceiving them does not
Pin guilt aide it wilts knowing
The real drug dealers the doc
Sending people who got
Addiction problems to phone
A Clinic to start u a new dependency
Called methadone
So leave the **** alone, such
A mess and known
If ur not an ignorant clone
That can't see on there own
It's the same drug dealer
Just a different drug
So how does **** for oxy heads
Really help them its rough
I must be a mute cause all
My opinions arnt heard
And I protect my pocket with no
Pocket protecter so am I a nerd
I must be a bad ****** word
Cause whenever I am. Brought up
Eyes go wide as if I am a bad
Influence like I'm hopped up
On morphine and more fiends
Are. Created each day
As doctors seem to just
Wanna give there drugs away
Well I'm done for the day
That's enough complaints for me
And if u didn't like it call 1800
I don't give a **** and Plz
Remember if it's busy just hang
up and try ur Call  again
Cause I always look forward
To being **** on for when
I use the freedom of speech
Giving to me as a right
So those opposed your all *****
So that means I must. Be a ****
*** yikes ewww a **** yuck
Get it away
So what I say I had to say Plz don't play
With what lay in my spray
Of opions in the way I say
What I say when I say it
If u hate me I'm still on ur mind
And worth hating so go ahead hate it
Poetic dues I payed it
Roads I pave it so those
Who chose to be a voice for
His beliefs always knows
There way but in dismay
I may not pray for others
Cause they may see a dead end
Even though they are covered
And smothered in talent
But if never discovered ur covered
Lucky if Facebook will even read
Let alone brothers and mothers
Cause to hypnotize the others
Selling out lurks in the way
And wut defines selling out is such
An area of grey
So goodbye again I'll say
I'm on my way out and gone
Not even a penny for my thoughts
And it's so sad a penny's beyond
What most would pay
As they say I'm just one of alot
But I maybe a snowflake looking
The same but actually I am not

My clasped hands were unseen
and my prayers went unheard
I tried so hard to believe
in its contradicting words

So many await the touch of god
that so often fails to reach them
so we buy into the facade
and accept its requiem

Substituting the divine
with the fabrications of man
wasting precious time
just trying to understand

Is it god who is invisible. . .
  or is it I?

I’m sorry, Sir,
I know you said
I had to write out
50 times

“I must improve” - but
50 times
a different thought
came to my mind

i must look after myself properly
i must eat more
i must drink less
i must make time for myself
i must get the test
i must organise the divorce
i must sort out my job
i must sort out my head
i must get the car serviced
i must tidy this ******* place up

i must give up the ****
i must phone my friends more often
i must become a better person
i must take control of my life
i must find a therapist
i must hoover
i must grow up
i must calm down
i must sing more
i must accept myself

i must finish that poem
i must challenge ‘must’
i must find a new balance
i must raise my self-esteem
i must put on weight
i must get to bed earlier
i must return those calls
i must take up meditation again
i must get to the bottom of this paperwork
i must ease off the whisky

i must read more classics
i must remember how to feel good about myself
i must print those t-shirts i keep talking about
i must feed the fish
i must organise my finances
i must rearrange the living room
i must look into a mortgage
i must pray to the god of small things
i must hold good people close to me
i must burn out my cynicism

i must stop spending more than i earn
i must stop pushing people away
i must stop feeling icky about her past
i must stop being a drama queen
i must stop beating myself up
i must stop putting it off
i must stop going through the motions
i must stop looking for the answer in others
i must, i must,
i must
stop substituting poetry
for action

Love is that in which we search are inner most being for. It is that by which we live our daily lives. If man were to truly describe love it would be considered unfathomable even by the wisest of men. Regret, Sin, Hate, Love Equality, are these not all things in which we all share with one another. Did not our creator provide his own heart within us? For if the statement “Life is short lived” should you live life to its fullest?

Self Reliance is something every man shares with one another for if we do not rely on our selves how is it possible then to rely on God to do things for us if we struggle with our own trust? Hardship, does not everyman endure his own for the sake of something he loves? Every man derives his own will power to do something from within his heart and through this he is able to clearly see what is sacrifice, what is compassion, what is love.

Strength and will all of humanity has strength and will within them as to rather they choose to use it is chosen by no one but themselves. Despite those who say I can not they are saying I am afraid. Those who fear have only themselves to fear.

Simplicity is it not true that in todays day and age that things are simple and easy going and are perceived by society as to be a benefit to man kind? i believe that we should not strain ourselves over things but also i must say that it causes us to lose sight of what it truly means to be hard working sure we say it but do we truly mean it when we say that was hard or are we just substituting as a filler for saying something that was above the average life experience.

Mental Strength now we all must realize that we are all the same but also different at the same time fact of the matter is that we believe it to be true that we all share the same heart the same mind and even the same dislikes and likings. But what if in proposed theory all the things we experience and love and care for were thrown into chaos would we as the human race be able to hold up our own mental strength or would we be thrown into the chaos and just subject to whatever was told to us? See now i believe that in retrospect that mental strength does not derive from mans heart nor his capability to learn and retain knowledge i believe that this strength is driven by the human spirit and through this spirit as man regconizes it he sees that his true nature is one of compassion and inner strength than that of an outward appearance

Life's Difficulties found through God?

Life is hard and doesnt let up sometimes does that mean i should quit just cuz im down in the mud? We all take hard falls through life and sometimes yes they do leave scars thats remind us wat happend. Sometimes doesnt it feel like the world has put a cage around us and then the world comes back around to the cage and taunts us liek were some kind of animal? We all go through lifes troubles but we also coem out of them and sometimes we are down on out knees say WHO CAN HELP ME NOW!!!! WHO CAN SAVE ME!? As hard as it may seem God is there for us when we need it and through his help we can jump and stand tall on the highest pride rock in unselfish and pure righteousness and Tell the World I control ME NOT U ! I live for wat i believe ! I dive into the deepths of my own ocean ! I hear GOd I trust him and Slap me down into the mud and rub it in my face but i will always Get back up and u can **** me shot me torture but in the end I WIN!