"successors" poems
My hijab is a piece of imagination
a symbol of Islamic populism,
yet I get carried away by racists
misjudging my outer belief, only
for the sake of white extremists,
I cry and wet my birth certificate!
why am I a Muslim? Is it my choice?
I see a minute third-piece frame
down the lane-a sorrow to share,
it chokes my individuality- an insult
to my devotion for god, for life ;
yet, people have the time to call
us terrorists when they roam naked,
some pretending to be feminists
and lovers! Reality is a bitter piece
of chocolate melting away as time fades,
as it erodes the values we held before,
20th century is still marred by those
who wish to keep their history books
unfolded, un-kept and unstated;
a wish down the memory lane is needed
for it will awaken the senses of my fellow
brothers and sisters fighting over a shawl
covering my head!
I am curious and this curiosity is not a mere
joke, its the curiosity weaved into a cloth
hiding my sensitive and strong brain
from those “all-seeing” eyes around me,
pretending to expose my hair as if it was
something of utmost importance and value,
but friends, it’s nothing, it’s a trick
by those who seek to humiliate me and
my faith for god, and I am sure that this
will echo for the decades to come,
for me, a hijab is – “ a piece of head
covering worn by women of the world”;
and I am sure that our fight for the right
to wear something will reprimand
and will be carried out by my fellow
successors and those who shed light
to our cries and woes in this big world
of ours!
[AMEN]
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC
oh darling
it is you who cries too often
and leaves nothing inside herself
it is you who purges
sweat
and blood
and *****
to the gods of self and society
sweat and blood and *****
to void and nothingness
grinning insanity of grief
cries to know and chooses not to
it is pain that you know
and pain that won’t release you
do not forget the heat of what fills your *******
your arms
your genitals
your sweat is burning
your blood is burning
***** burning
it is hell inside
empty your hell to me my love
empty your hot and heavy
loaded words and baggage
neverending flow of **** and ****
neverendingneverending
you are full of fire
and the molten gods of self-sacrifice
refuse to relinquish you
to holy happiness
empty your hell to me my love
I will cool your brow
with lips and hands and water
I will wash you in my love
I will know you with new love
I will fill you with
this serenity
that you can
empty
into
me
cool the fires of fear
and pain and loss and betrayal
with new fires of passion
that are exuberant acts of ecstasy
we are human after all
- only human
and holy holy holy to each other
this is what we are
beings filled with fire
molten images craved
even worshipped
created by gods
to serve as successors
we must stitch ourselves together
and quench this hell with heaven
a reclamation of scars
and scar tissues
we may build our own city
entirely of gold
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
So many questions in my head about simple religions
are they something God made or just devil envisioned?
Its kind a practical but if I ask I'm demon possessed
**** let me breathe in this cult I manifest.
I'm lead to believe in something I don't understand
I ask with such command am I insane because of this.
They tell you two things opposite from each other
but share the same views like prosperity and salvation.
Telling you to not follow Islamic Ramadan,
Hinduism caste systems or anything that corrupts the mind.
To me its just nothing but simple communism
an oxymoron for morons without a way of living.
Too many days hoping for a message in a source in a enlightened force instead of letting nature take its course.
How many years am I gunna live behind shades
Even my shadow gets the most attention.
Tired of wishing for the best still the stress keeps consuming
success is up a hill a thousand miles away.
Only if I had dreams to steal just to **** time
A false grind running in circles chasing my own ***
well even a dog wouldn't chase after a ***** with a fur collar
I'm a dog barking at these strays.
No choice no vision just a broken sand clock
paused days seems to delay my own knowledge.
No oracles its rhetorical trapped inside of Matrix living a basic life
Brainwashed by circles of successors.
So many serpents biting my flesh in this Garden of Eden
Starving and bleeding constantly dreaming when I'm sleep
and when I'm sleeping I'm 2 steps behind.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
I think it’s important to make peace with your long line of perpetually confused and self-indulgent ancestry once grasping at and fumbling through a life at which they, preceding you, assumed they occupied the centre of and sought to prove this to mostly anyone, with rapacious might and puerile visions of their own success story, which no matter how successful would always only occupy the dark corners of their blood-successors’ historical records of themselves, which is to say you, adding them up with other people who were once important to them and stuffing them into some numerical equation on which they occupy the left, and you the right side of the equal-sign, but all of which exists in the vast and endless vicissitude of spinning void, of which you both (and us all) occupy some cosmic equivalence (and importance) of the universes stray skin-cell, somewhere on the foot perhaps, unconsidered and left alone until we all disappear into the casket of an unrecorded history.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
tented World of Bubbles and
critters, monkey-wild,
the slant-
off,
the fathoms of a depth,
of Worlds whose histories end
in a fraction of what nature does do.
Amola mola, designator
a bulb of light dangling down to the nauticals,
the bubble armoured polyps.
The lively cesspool of micro-seamounts, where,
once there stood strong
a sea-green zoo,
now vaguely stands a mineral vestige.
Gaia shut off the vent
everyone goes away.
visited by wraiths --
These black lampreys, hooded and veiled,
clustering, cloistering,
the successors who
they and they only
the new deepsea robbers.
now a lighter sinking feeling,
the demigod sinks hitherto like nature does do.
a giant ***** whale dies above
Casting its shadow of hope
and the wraiths appear in the umbra
pushing & shoving for a spot
food arrives with a thud;
a castle of whale bones as their home
they were never so happy.
so crazily, thoughtlessly food-driven
deepsea "things"
swish-swash swish-swash goes the weird fish circus,
and then, crazily so
upon their trophy, the mirror wraiths,
of a bubbled World
feed in frenzy.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
I was once told to edit the world. I grabbed my colored pencils, my childish ideals thinking I could simply, go over the imperfections left by my predecessors. Soon I would come to realize, life is no etchy-sketch. I could shake the world, twist, mold into anything I wanted. It’s still ****** up. I’m still trying to color the problems. I shade the unwanted, masking it over so I can pretend it’s gone. My day dreams continue further as I sketched over past memories, just want to edit the world. But, colored pencils become daggers when in the right hands. I’ve leaped into this idea with no plan, Standard american wisdom. Act first, question later. my first action should have been to ask, is the world a canvas? Maybe it’s a kindergarden sandbox, 5 year old fists and 6 year olds toes smash and pound through. Maybe it’s a thunderstorm because, I was told life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. All I’ve seen is dark clouds and lighting. Maybe the world is me. Poetic angst without fail, too much energy to use, to many words spoken at a rapid pace. Maybe the world is you, you, or you. It’s not just its own story, it’s a combination of auto-biographies still being written. Maybe... Just maybe, we are all editors. The world is constantly being edited, no single person should aim to do it themselves. Our world is force, a group, a team, a family taking the pens from our mothers and fathers, writing our chapters into the guide on how to edit. Sooner rather than later, we’ll pass our pens down to those who will write the chapters we never get to see. Hopefully, 5 year old fists and 6 year old toes become 20 year old champions and 30 year old heroes. We can share our stories, filled with the people we’ll never forget, and the nights, we can’t seem to remember. In the end, editing the world will never finished, it can be forgotten. We hope shedding sun rays on a rainy day, might convince our successors to never forget. Sadly, We can only hope they wish to edit.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
Mundane celebrations to mask our ever closing demise
Working 9 to 5s, never fully enjoying our limited lives
Never knowing which day will be our last
So we choose to slave away for a world
That we will never fully experience
In the hopes our successors will enjoy the fruits of our labor
But inevitably enjoy the same propaganda pamphlets that their parents once read
And slave for a world, that their successors might enjoy
All the while, the reapers scythe sharpens.
Sep 4, 2021
Sep 4, 2021 at 6:06 PM UTC
*well O... well... O, give me life! i need no beggars of the cyclone to repeat the foundations of seasons and things tectonic! O... well, O! rounded-up by rugby geometrics for an oval symmetry of the orbits... O... might i add - oh? well harp me a sigh with it too - or play me the ******* violins... i too might add my toes in the muddy sands of the Calais of India that's Goa: with toes clenched inward like a grip of a crow, or the antics of a ballerina; indeed Calais, the footnote of the Angevins... tell your integrating dogma to successors of william the conqueror's behaviour, as by-way dehumanising righteously - such the tongue spoken, such the tongue rebelling - via the term identified with utmost against the irish post-stamp claims for a peace treaty: rōnin; no, you be sub-human teaching me the language and then venturing into treating me as a simple cashier - no education system is necessary to craft the near robotic professions! why crave capitalism in the educational system when all might be happier un-educated for the professions the lazy aristocrats intended for them?*
i'll march against your little
utopia...
by god i'll march against your
Parisian Disney fairyland
with teeth clenched and fingernails bit
to a manicure!
for the chastity of white
lacking colours of a rainbow -
since on white an imprint,
and on black an absorption to stack-up
the many lacks of expression.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
liquid will swirl into the shape of it's cradle as hearts will mold to the minds of their successors. background checks?
tl;dr.
______________________________________________
brave girls have cranberry ***** running through their veins, isn't that right? drink up, buttercup.
what's it if you and i goes on a ride? i got a paintbrush, you've got what needs to be painted. i'll paint you so good you won't even recognize yourself.
-
portraiture is dead and landscape is only dying.
let me
-make you
-in two
-into
a landscape.
you're gonna be sittin' pretty for the rest of your life, 'cause i'm not giving you any other options. open up those ankles - we're out of paint.
-
this prototype calls for one cup of honeydew, one cup of darling- stop - .
if it's on the market, how illegal could it be?
throw 'er in the ***
the bottom drawer plays labyrinth to movers, shakers, mixers, fixers.
all those faces are too hard to tell apart, if you ask me. ten can-can dancers, please, and make it snappier than jaws on concrete!
no, not like that.
you're spending too much money on lipstick anyways. girls don't need makeup. girls will look pretty no matter what angle i've determined your elbows should be. your short-haired sister doesn't appear to be using this blood.
-
lay her on thick; and make sure you write those scars off as business expenses.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
Change in legacy. Change in living conditions. Change in action and behavior. Change in habits. Change in mentality and in spirituality. Change in income. Change in social class. Change in education. Change in self. Change in others. Change in opportunity. Change in setting up the next generation to surpass the successors of our own. Change in heart, mind, and soul. Change in health and in wealth. Change in attitude and gratitude. Change in generosity and prosperity. Change in how we treat our neighbor. Change in love. Change in life.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 12:18 PM UTC
Solomon tells God not to forget his promises he made to his father, David, of successors and protection.
. . . . . . .
I wonder what his promises are to me
if he has made any at all.
But if he has not
he has in a million small and large matters
protected me
except when I didn’t allow him to
which is probably most of the time.
Dare I expend the energy
to mentally list these matters?
I seem so lazy
when I think of my parents and how they sacrificed
their pleasure and comfort for me,
when I think of the pain I caused Mom
from the first weeks of conception on.
Oh how I have taken that love for granted.
How much more so with my Creator.
But truth is, I cannot separate the love
of Mamma and Daddy
friends who bore my boorishness
kin who’ve overlooked me overlooking them
I cannot separate these
from the fingers of the great sculptor.
(See I Kings 8:25-30)
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
new words for an old day that’s just begun
even I, author of the conundrum above,
confused but let us sort it out as we
descend into the elixir that is our combo
of noises, prejudices, limited vocabularies
time noted, not even the nine o’clock mark,
so the day qualifies as new, but it’s an aged
sun rising, skills displaying, historical precedent,
ancient practice, adjusted for atmosphericals
the lawn is speckled, mottled, as light ray guns
through the defending battalion branches and
platoons of leaves facing up, to a certain death
later than sooner, no killing fields till September
the oak tree generals, wisdomed experiential,
prepare plans, take light a prisoner in sufficient
quantity to nourish the troops, yet, not too much,
for the sun can be fickle, a flame thrower machina
all that vision leads me to this pronouncement:
*Oh Lord, bountiful be provided, beloved, inscribed,
this day, its mega-millennium predecessors and
successors gifted precision amounts needed, then,
**Cast me gently into morning,
For the night has been unkind,
Take me to a, a place so holy,
That I can wash this from my mind,
The memory of choosing not to fight.**
Sara Mclachlan “The Answer”
9:18am Thu Jul 9 ‘20
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 9:29 AM UTC
1.
Diaphanous dragons disgorge a deluge of diamonds
into the shadowed crevices of cumulus clouds.
Ruby-red sapphires overpopulate the glistening sky
like carbon-hardened locust: gorgeous messengers of the gods.
The Earth wears a crimson helmet, shielded from
the odious absence of ozone above the North and South poles.
Near Minneapolis, John Berryman's wizened body shatters
on the frozen riverbed below the Washington Avenue Bridge.
Angels weep to see him jump, as he waves a vaudevillian goodbye.
The sapphires blanch, then turn an angry, violent violet. Black holes ahead.
2.
Shakespeare and Mr. Bones **** on mortality's skimpy
skeleton of life. Will this broken body be resurrected?
Does it deserve such distinction? Better yet, does its daring,
drunken destroyer? Four hundred Dream Songs nod yes.
Berryman toddled ticklishly toward the last traces of transcendence.
Love & Fame broadcast how terribly his faith failed to trade
daily delirium tremens for the mysterium tremendum.
The God he prayed to demanded a syntax pure, plain.and perfect.
With jolts of jest, He jimmied paradoxes into koans. Berryman
howls for the sound of one diamond scratching the outline of his body on ice.
3.
He left a legacy broader than liquor, lechery and the love-struck ladies.
Lust seeded his fallow lacunae and lazily broke his wife's heart.
Scholarship scooted him to the squeamish, secluded top
of his Shakespearean class: Signal student turns trusted teacher.
Poetry cloned the Oklahoma clown in him. No successors,
no schools, no savvy peers, save Lowell. his fellow manic-depressive.
He dreamed songs of hilarity, humility, history, dehumanization.
Poetry proved serious business until it learned to laugh at itself.
Sapphires crackle under the weight of the creaking sun. They spin a kaleidoscopic rainbow of colors onto Berryman's obituary. Somehow, he has won:
An irreplaceable jewel of the sky.
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 4:01 PM UTC
In thousands and thousands of years,
our successors, who or whatever they are,
won’t just find our bones.
They’re going to find our living rooms,
our I-pods, coffee mugs,
suitcases, post-it notes.
The quiet little things that become our lives,
and they’ll look at each other, our successors,
and they’ll think: ‘how charming…how primitive they lived.
This is what they wore on their feet,
and this is the thing they used to listen to music
with before they had the microchips implanted.”
But it makes me think.
This is exactly what we say now
…about the Greeks, the Mesopotamians,
the Incas, Mayas,
all the loin-cloth wearers.
We talk about them
like they were exempt
from unremarkable daily existences,
that their run-of-the mill equivalences’ to Tuesdays
were filled with human sacrifices,
complex rituals and **** like that.
We never talk about how they must have felt exactly like we do now…
We never talk about how they could have easily felt alone in a crowd,
or how they could have felt unrequited love.
They’re always talked about like they were better or worse than we are.
But I think we’re really just exactly the same as them.
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 6:36 PM UTC
Tick tock. Tick tock
The clock is never stopping
Never slowing
Never ceasing
Never moving
Drip drop. Drip drop
Blood is flowing
Tears are falling
Sweat is dripping
Its something horrible that they've done
Destroying many
Not just one
Could they not think?
Not see?
Never understand?
Sitting in a palace so grand
Watching the peons scramble about
Never even pretending to give ****
Now the successors lie to us
Try to appeal to the nothing left behind
Try to force themselves upon us
Can you not see it?
Feel it?
Know it?
Tick tock. Tick tock
Goes the last few precious minutes
Our only chances at recovery
Drip drop. Drip drop
The blood is flowing from a pointless war
Our lives swiftly following....
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 10:04 PM UTC
Long and Long I waited, endlessly, for you
Far and Far I ventured, maddingly, for you
To the deepest depths of Styx, I ****** myself for you
To the paramount peaks of Blue, I ascended high for you
O, my soul! Your radiance bewilders me
I sought for you among the trees
Dressed in majestic silky fleece
I sought for you among the insects
Adorned with ornamental trinkets
I sought for you among the beasts
With your lips purer than priests
I sought for you among the runes
Hair fragranced by jovial Junes
I sought for you among the humans,
For You, I searched the frigid south,
For You, I searched the turbulent north
For You, I searched the scornful west.
For You, I searched the pitiful east
But with mournful tears,
I found you saddened
I found you wounded
I found you chained
I found you condemned
I found you abandoned
(Your torn fleece
Your broken ornaments
Your scarred lips
Your tousled hair
Your teary eyes
Sears my heart)
Yet your presence soothes your oppressors?
Yet your heart trusts their successors?
O heinous concubines of pride
Why do you strangle my bride?
Why persecute my bride?
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 8:29 AM UTC
I don't want to think that I'll be a Hemingway,
And Wilde was too sharp;
Parker loved a new man twice a day,
Poe's work was far too dark.
Homer never trimmed his hair,
Bukowski was drunk as a skunk;
Dickinson fancied her self as fair,
And Woolf's career just sunk.
I dream of being Vonnegut
Though Cummings mastered nonsense
Though when Dickens lines up to putt,
He and Plath couldn't stop at one sentence.
Fitzgerald knows the psyche twist
Though Freud will never slip;
Cobain spent every moment ******
while Courtney Love was on a trip.
When I think of my successors
(In Hell it must be tight)
I know to challenge my oppressors
I'll likely have to write.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
hours since I was home,
my sign is astrological calm
twelve dozen months or years until
Revelations 12:1
or twelve tribes
twelve sons of Jacob
twelve Imams legitimate successors
twelve Disciples, narrates the Prophet Yusuf
and his twelve brothers,
the twelfth moon of Jupiter, Lysithea,
the number of Magnesium, my son's weight
at three months plus his nine inside,
my cranial nerves,
C in hexadecimal,
NGC 12 spiral galaxy,
is craps on the first roll?
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
♛ ♛ ♛
Martin Luther, righteous King,
made the Reformation sing.
Popes and peasants, out of key
turned it into misery.
German beer and Roman crimes
made for most uncivil times
much like our own. We must confess
rights and wrongs we yet possess...
Half a millennium later on
a Baptist pastor and his son
took this noble Saxon name
and furthered the Reformer's fame.
Some revisionists deny
St. Martin Luther's role, and try
to minimize theology
in civil rights chronology.
The second Luther of my song
inspired—but did not last as long.
Social Justice notwithstanding,
King's successors need re-branding.
Politicians steal his mantle,
cloak their lies in his example;
agitators claim his glory
pushing God out of the story;
educators sing his praises
but some people's conduct raises
doubts about that dream of King—
and hope... and change... and everything.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 9:05 PM UTC
The collapsing sun,
of a civilization,
once one,
engulfs the flame of the modern day mind.
Ignorance blinds intelligence,
and social stigma,
is irrelevant,
in a modern day world run by reality TV.
Modern day man smears predecessors,
but in the end,
supports their successors,
as long as they continue their reign of ********
Nature suffers from a crippling disease,
modern day man,
brings her to her knees,
and beats her to death while wearing a blindfold.
We do all we can,
to destroy ourselves.
Modern day man,
we think all's well.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Our World
Is our delicate time and space;
it drains us, yet sews
all its wisdom in lieu.
As an honorable thief,
does it give and it take;
yet, the World, it refuses
to learn or give due.
The World dons scarves
as dark as the night
as to peddle its eye
round a vanity, fair.
These beautiful veils
of deceptive insight
do shamelessly shade
the reality there.
And, so, the World speaks
a fallacious demise,
and helpless are we
but to learn for a season.
So, painfully teething,
oft made is the choice
that's ironically borne
by the curse of it's
R E A S O N .
Our Life
it is fickle, and its hurdles, astute,
are hidden from sight,
lest we brace for an err.
Erectors of kingdoms
and heroes of lore
have knelt in submission,
though truly, they bear
as successors of wisdom;
and, hashing the mind
will lessen their fears
and their Love beatify.
For, whereas our Love
will instill in us purpose,
this World, of its greed
shall indemnify.
Blind to this study
are those who are jaded
by a constant
societal scrutiny—
what spawns of a whisper,
one so oft mistakes
as factual precept
or a mystery.
And, as nature's allowed,
through the pain of what's seen,
born of this mindset's
a fear that
M I S L E A D S .
Our Fear
can be weakness or a tool to enlight,
and those of the weakness
shall suffer the blitz;
the absolute's waning
shall surely bevex
such disdaining and hopeless
a reckless dismiss.
Misplacing this fear
makes a host most deranged
and the doorway to
failure falls wide.
The fear of critique,
and of silence and death,
all are but wrought
of the fear of one's life.
For lesser is known,
such siring mistrust,
though, all but uncommon, herein.
And, those who fear
are as ignorant sheep,
but those who do not
fall astray to the spin.
Yet, let ignorance be noble;
for denying Love's endeavor
be ****** as boiling waters
F O R E V E R .
Our People
fall short of the brilliance of babes
to pursue a suggestion—
a swindling so grand.
So, of what mystic gall,
so bold to demand,
has the World to serve
as the Heart of man?
The wise do not place
fear in death or the World;
they take solace in faith
and fear not this affair.
Their fear has been placed
in the face of greatness,
relieving an ignorant
soul of despair.
For only in death
is there absence of question,
and far beyond crossing
will peace enrobe the wise.
So, sharpen your motive
and look to the skies;
for alongside the answer,
therein, lies the
R E P R I S E !
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Awe inspired
While the whole world was
Expecting a
Brilliant lady
In the white-house,
Drawing a blank
It witnessed a
Clown in a Farce
House,where
With the rob of Democracy
Takes stage Autocracy!
If spoken must
Be the truth
The revolting unfolding
Augurs ill to the youth--
The successors,
The task forces of
A given nation,
Who deserves
More attention
To take the nation
To a new height
Where it will prove
A beacon light!
Vampires to
Their hearts' delight
Hold and chew
More than they can bite
Blind to others' plight!
So we must slam on the face
A ****** speech is out of place!
"As the saying goes 'Back to square one--
subjugation, segregation
,gender and colour discrimination...
devilation--
We shall again be
A predator &brutal; nation"
"Business has become red hot
By fair means or foul
Let us get rid of
The non-Anglo Saxons
Rivals from the melting ***
Putting in the dark
From where we ourselves got
The ***
The bottom line is,
Brushing aside
Democracy's mockery
If preference treatment
Is necessary
Setting aside (college vote)
It is successors'
Voice that must get
More weight
In making a nation great.
It is also little
The attention of the fickle(with3 wives)
For the fair ***
This we have to battle.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
Isn’t it all games and bets?
With my sweet little marionettes
Charmingly they fight my wars
Dancing to my twiddling force
Happily I watch them give in
To the daily new laws I spin
Dear puppets what choice do you have?
But to dodge from the president’s wrath
Thus I command you to fight
For what should be ours by right
Oil, gold, land and power I lust
Looting the weak must be shushed
To hell you say I should make my way
Blaming me for the wars we play
Remember it was me who was named
To comply the wishes our country claimed
Even you’ve got marionettes to your ease
Gladly abusing them as you please
Power and wealth society craves
It’s not just me who misbehaves
My successors will replace my place
Juggling with morals they will face
For the system was painted by society
And now it pains our humanity
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
Optimism
The dogma that is oh so self-assured of the contingency
proclaiming the prevalence of good over infamy
as though it is incontrovertibly concordant with factual certainty
'tis merely a fallacy or an element of a fantasy in which people live in harmony
Life
But really, in this cruel realm, the mistakes of our forefathers
manifest themselves as demons hollering at us to notify us of the need to be better in this endeavour
or we'd get slaughtered with the blade of a knife comprised of their defeats altogether
forged into a skin piercing crystal reminiscent of their congealed sweat that perspired from the extreme pressure
stimulated from bottling up anger and restraining themselves from speaking up against transgressors
nevertheless, we make the same mistakes to pass it on to the next generation deeming them the successors of displeasure tolerators
Death
What are the benefits of labouring through a 9 to 5 job if its eventuality
is the same as that of lying on the ground all day? It will all come to a finality
the universe is indifferent towards our actuality. It will continue expanding until it reaches the point of totality
emotions are nothing but particular sequences of electric pulses in wads of matter, faulty physicality
any memory held by any entity will eventually be lost at the end of this simulation played out chronologically
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC
Read my sole desire,
Oh my future children,
Burn my pyre when I die,
For I don't want to rise again,
Rise again when the angels cry,
And when they cry the dead rise,
Cry they may on the Judgment Day.
I don't want to be the walking dead,
As a blight may I 'come for earth,
Don't get me counted in them,
No, I don't wanna be buried,
Burn me after my death,
Oh my successors,
Read my will.
As I don't wanna walk again the floor of hatred,
And I don't wanna witness again that blood red,
As I don't wanna see the sky turning crimson red,
And I don't wanna waste some land as my bed,
Rather give me an electric funeral, my people,
For soon they will run their tanks over my grave,
And they might displace it and insult my grace.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 7:06 AM UTC