T'is silence leaps from one self to another. Betrayal, o betrayal, doth greet it-so violently and startlingly, along th' entirety of its journey! Undelightful as 'tis, but made worse by t'at hostile dubiousness. Another fact aside from its ambivalent hatefulness: recognisable to every questioning eye-is t'is downright scary on its own, with unmolested quietude, and ******, but involuntary, unspokenness. Resolutions made within undesirable ambiences! Sacrifice t'at outwardly suggests th' presence of glam profuse in rich elaboration-but bland enough! And on top of all, t'is brimming immovability, and 'tis pool of doubts is causing me but to commence feeling weary about 'tis raising thorn. How didst I send myself into ferocious wanders-about t'is airless rooms, heated like sunflowers bathing themselves to death on th' giggling surface of raging snow. Battle of nature-and war of its childlike beings! Like a stoical plant in th' midst of 'tis glittering forest; vacant and idyllic-passive and unquestioning towards th' blades of farmers t'at come to exploit 'em: with morbid and futile, savage desires for rebellious treasures-unbecoming in t'eir temporariness, and unavoidability of sincere devotion as t'ey wilt soon leave t'eir offspring bereft of t'eir provisions once more. Yet look, look how red t'eir eyes are in t'eir hunger-eccentric vivacity gloweth in t'eir eyes, but mockery governs 'em-as ruptured t'eir weak souls are, by loathsome uncertainty and severe senses of greed. How t'is consideration made aggravated; agitated my soul is-o, seriously agitated! Yes, indeed! No longer doth vanity boast away about being my pride, but th' sultry pointlessness of my power of self-esteem. How melancholy t'is life is! O, and th' raising thorn itself, th' one aforementioned so discreetly within my fourth phrase up t'ere-growing dominantly and selfishly-aye! every day, is unlikely to be abashed by any remorseful incarceration, or stony suicidal attempts hurled by t'ose disgraceful beings out t'ere; but in t'is case, yon disgracefulness is comprised of grateful swarms of exquisite laughter, divine in its own roots, like th' sacred nook of a moonlit river. And how t'ere, on its most godlike slice of rock-so dearly scented by nature and innocent greenness-a sight be so dear to my longing eyes, shalt thou dwell with thy poems, and heart trembling with thy fullness of passion. For me, yes, for me, selfishly! O, my love! Cannot help I uttering thy name-thy very name, whom I am undeniably besotted with, like a feverish storm mooning over its lifelike sea, and whose eager cruelty so invincibly blanched by 'tis romantic tides-gone as it is, in just a seeming couple of cordial seconds! My love, whose name is so unmistakably dear to my heart, and indisputably belongs to 'tis greedy layers-ambitious, my love, desirous of,  and bland to solely th' dormant rains of thy love! O, t'ose pristine tears of blessings t'at are volatile but decorative to my half life-for thou art unarguably th' other half of me! And splendid in t'is very breath, t'at recognition t'en beats furiously along with t'is frail voyage of my humanness-grounded inevitably by unremarkable velocity are my wheels, and sometimes imprisoned in helplessness amidst th' pursuit of my fierce dreaming. But I admire 'tis core-as it is but thy warm, genial slumber; and 'tis skin is but th' very depths wherein I conceal my very whole love for thee. My love, my darling! If only thou wert here-yes, here, querida, to indulge t'is pr'saic quietude, shalt I shrink into nothing but a piece of thy fallen star; and t'ese feeble hands shalt t'en thou own, just as thy heart I should'th won.

I’ll rev you like a Porsche
Pressurize the clutch then
ease on the equipped brake
enrolling the steering wheel

On the highway as we sing
Tuning choruses eccentrically
apply the mascara and smile
put my flock on, swing like Bowie

Craze up in seismic grooves
Shift to a self expression culture
be so extreme that you glitter
I’ll desire your ambiguousness

Unarguably, I’ll hold your hand
An evolved zeitgeist in revolution
squeeze their prejudiced little heads
replicate, experiment your persona

I will tell you not of our
Secret mangrove tenement,
Tunneled through the space
behind both of our eyes.
A place meant for whimsy
and bioluminescent fauna,
fawning faux sun light
out into obsidian night.

Nor will I tell of our
soul’s soft meridian,
served on the half shell
to both kind and prying
eyes, distant though
unarguably tied— ribbons
spun, fastened, dyed

For what end should I tell?
When your very presence is
Heaven.
And your very absence
Hell.

With apathy,

I am happy.

…

Without apathy,

I am horribly frustrated,

restless,

occasionally disheartened

where I am not myself.

But so unarguably alive

thrillingly animated;

unmistakably blissful;

So utterly

in love.

If I were a celebrity...
I would contact all the rest of the female celebrities attending an upcoming red carpet event and try and get everyone including myself to show up without any makeup on at all to display not natural beauty, but a lack of concern for outer beauty to society and the media.

If I were a famous music artist...
I would write songs about imperfections I would write songs to heal people emotionally in the way only music can and get people who enjoy my music to contact me with their stories and meet with them so I can write songs personalized to their story so they can always have a song that they can 100% relate to.

If I were a famous author...
I would write books from the point of view of a girl who is unarguably NOT traditionally physically pretty, not necessarily traditionally ugly, but not particularly pretty (by society's standards and definitions I mean because beauty doesn't have a REAL definition), but my character would be so beautiful inside. I would write about a character who does all the normal things a real person does and not everything in her life would end in happily ever after because in real life, not everything does. She would be a real type of person, she would walk into rooms and forget what she was there for (which I do an embarrassing amount of times in a day) she would occasionally trip down the stairs (and up it too the way I ever so clumsily do) she would hate having uneven hoodie strings, her favorite song would come on all the time on the radio when she pulls into the garage, she would press those little buttons you find on the lids of fast-food drinks and she would always get stuck behind slow-walkers at the mall. I would create a character people can relate to because there are far too many books about perfect beautiful people with perfect lives where things turn out perfectly for them and I’d like to create a role model of a character who is not perfect.

If I were someone who could reach millions of people with my words, I would want to do so much. But I am just me, and my words cannot influence the whole world. I can’t change society, I am so small in our big, big world I don’t have a voice. I hope those who have a voice use it well.

Repost if you wish you had a bigger voice
Comment and tell me what you would do to change the world if you had a bigger voice

When we are born, we make our first promise.
A promise to abide by society’s rules and expectations, and to fulfill the status quo.
We are only to be what society deems correct.

It is a dictatorship and a repression of individuality.
A production of a row of robots, each the same in their monotonous design.
Fully functioning machines - not a nut or bolt out of place.

But if you dare to misstep or if you try to rebel -
no one is to blame for the inevitable consequences of your actions but yourself.
Because society shapes us, and we shape society.

And this allows for all hatred and discrimination to fester.
Slowly accepted norms in our God Fearing, Deteriorating, Splintering world.
Separated by what we look like and not by who we are.

Standing out and being different is unarguably wrong.
More deplorable than being scared of what is divergent, unfamiliar and what we frown upon.
That this vicious circle of sameness goes on and on.

Giving an opinion is to open a window to one’s perspective
It can require introspection but is far from always definitive
People usually want it to be objective
While opinion, to me, can be nothing but subjective

Opinions lie on knowledge and experience
Two things that bolster one’s body of evidence
Establishing a thin or thick line of reference
To which we all offer multiple marks of deference

Could that explain why it’s always so difficult to make it budge?
Is it like becoming a referee or embodying a judge?
Are there any rules that should be strictly followed?
Any piece of advice, decisive, immutable, somebody ever sold?
What’s sure is that everyone’s entitled to an opinion, I’ll never hold a grudge
Because rejecting exchange would be nothing but a smudge.

When not arguing facts, is anybody really right or wrong?
I would like to believe so depending on the subject
One decisive element should unarguably be the context
Because without weak there’s obviously no strong.

The ultimate key lies in the word “listening”
Socrates used to say “I know that I know nothing”
If so, what do I know? I’m asking!
If you bring your ear closer, you could hear just something
That might uncover a clue, changing
Just a little or more of what you’ve been believing
Altering your opinion on a specific matter
Making you nothing more than a bit wiser.

therefore he characterizes himself as an anomaly...any idea why?

Mortified, petrified, stultified, et cetera sheltered,
and mortally wounded prepubescent,

I consider myself
analogously buttressed, cocooned,
garrisoned (for bing keeler),
hardened, insulated,
where cell baited jumping frog
o' Montgomery County ne'er
went leaving larvae stage,
now no divine providential
power can assuage,

yours truly metaphorically locked
within invisible iron bound cage
every occasion to shower
validates steep wage
permanently doled out,
yet tis futile to rage
against this human machine
i.e. body dielectric rampage
clocking three scored

orbitz chronological gauge
forever fixed feigned fodder,
when unlived uber story
of mein kampf writ faint
chicken scratch final page
gin hated anorexic
regressive toddling cribbage
deadly game of mine Life pampered
post infancy attended

Aladdin (a lad in) his hermitage
late childhood marriage
with grim reaper as
coefficient co-inhabitant
feasting emaciated lovely bones
verily scrawny, puny, and
nerdy, yea easy to lyft
courtesy lost livingsocial scrimmage
trademark spindleshanks -

stagnant embarrassingly useless
two legged equipage
at childhood's end...,
me skinny package then
weighing, eh no
more'n half dozen stone,
these days when
******* to wash
forced to espy physical

**** sapiens wreckage
constant visual reminder
this spare rankled, stunted,
tendered ship of state,
yours truly nah oh sage
enlightenment gleaned i.e.
20/20 hindsight kickstarted
quickened, leveraged, mortgaged...,
principly unbalanced worthiness

anatomical disparity
impossible mission to salvage
accounting rent permanently askew
fixed APR rendered
amortization sabotage
irreversible penalty suffrage
escaping serfdom volunteering
self as webbed vassalage
til death do me part.

Subsequently, his female
persona pacified, but *****
Wonka who could offer
the golden ticket
to the chocolate factory
(and provide restitution
to mine childhood,
whereat I could select
the road not taken
setting me on a course
to healthy maturation

of body, mind, and spirit)
honest to dog housed
somewhere in Philly
within himself aptly,
coed gently, optimally,
suitably, verily, wonderfully
called Anna Milly,
which readership reception
might surprisingly please Billy
me not intended tubby
icy cold nor chilly...

After chugging, guzzling,
sipping, quaffing... wine
bitter to this teetotaling
(pharmacological medication dependent)
tongue as quinine
undoubtedly equally unpalatable
getting pricked with rusty nine
inch nails, (thank you
Trent Reznor) analogous
to being crucified
(been there done that)
inebriated self actualization
regarding mine
mental clarity crossed

figurative thin blue line
abnormality dawned
inside fifty shades
of gray matter marinated
these long years in brine,
which realization bubbled,
fizzled, nudged, plastered,
eventually spurred
bile lent reflux
in short shrift
generating poem without
rhyme, reason, but
essentially drivel concocted
blimy verse unarguably asinine.

Just bear with me and
swallow this poetic bunk,
no matter (ah mint) absolute
zero ***** drunk,
nor other alcoholic beverage
(amber liquid of
the dog gods) downed,
despite feeling in
deep purple funk
cuz that would wreak havoc
courtesy grapes of

wrath fermented gunk
very little liquor necessary
to plaster laughingstock
(sand thrown in these myopic eyes)
by any best buy, garden variety,
home depot hunk
treating me like
unwanted, outdated, and housed
née cooped (with toys in the attic) junk
enshrouded himself covered
with dust evokes monk.

Quickly, mostly easily forgotten about
elapse of time promoted doubt
regarding, weekday, month, year...
and purposeless either
to twist or shout
cuz pervasive fishy developmental
gill tee subservience deeply
affected him while
trout fishing in America.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

Silence in the draw of his illusive wings,
Passing eyes pick away at his mystery,
Years of examining his paths and patterns,
Will still never be enough to guess where he may finally land to rest,

Silence in the crack of his gentle heart,
How it breaks ever so slightly with each feeble pass of time,
His screams cannot be heard over the roaring engine of a stubborn society,

Silence in his waining portrait,
Shapes and colors hand painted by an omniscient God,
With a frame sculpted from clay by the same figure within the heavens in which he flies,

Silence in the still of his beauty,
How is it that the creature unarguably holding the most beauty also holds the most...
...silence?,
...mystery?,
...hurt?,

Take these broken wings and learn to fly,
Oh, look, theres a butterfly
What kind? What kind?
An orange one
He’s so tiny
His little wings are fluttering
How?
A secret, Alice. Theres something else nobody knows. And i am going to tell you. The truth is, i can fly without my wings, Alice. I can fly all my myself. Its something I’ve... always been able to do...

Take him away,
Away to a place where he may flourish and rejoice,
To a place where he is accepted, appreciated, and understood,
A place to bathe his wings with the sun so that he may finally be whole,
Fly,
Fly ButterFly Away,
Into the light of the dark, black night.

Silence in the draw of her soft wings,
Passing eyes pick away at her mystery,
Years of examining her paths and patterns,
Will still never be enough to guess where she may next land to rest,

Silence in the crack of her gentle heart,
How it breaks ever so slightly with each swing of the pendulum,
Her screams cannot be heard over the roaring engine of a stubborn society,

Silence in her seductive portrait,
Shapes and colors hand painted by an omniscient God,
With a frame sculpted from clay by the same figure within the heavens,

Silence in the still of her beauty,
How is it that the creature unarguably holding the most beauty also holds the most...
...silence?,
...mystery?,
...hurt?,

Take her away,
Away to a place where she may flourish and rejoice,
To a place where she is accepted and appreciated,
A place to bathe her wings with the sun so that she can feel beautiful once again,
Fly,
Fly ButterFly Away.