Ay, this is freedom!--these pure skies
  Were never stained with village smoke:
The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
  Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,
  And her who left the world for me,
I plant me, where the red deer feed
  In the green desert--and am free.

For here the fair savannas know
  No barriers in the bloomy grass;
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,
  Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.
In pastures, measureless as air,
  The bison is my noble game;
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
  The branches, falls before my aim.

Mine are the river-fowl that scream
  From the long stripe of waving sedge;
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam,
  Hides vainly in the forest's edge;
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;
  The brinded catamount, that lies
High in the boughs to watch his prey,
  Even in the act of springing, dies.

With what free growth the elm and plane
  Fling their huge arms across my way,
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train
  Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray!
Free stray the lucid streams, and find
  No taint in these fresh lawns and shades;
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind
  Where never scythe has swept the glades.

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere
  The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here,
  With roaring like the battle's sound,
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,
  And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:
I meet the flames with flames again,
  And at my door they cower and die.

Here, from dim woods, the aged past
  Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless future in the vast
  And lonely river, seaward rolled.
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew;
  Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue
  Bright clusters tempt me as I pass?

Broad are these streams--my steed obeys,
  Plunges, and bears me through the tide.
Wide are these woods--I thread the maze
  Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies
  O'er woody vale and grassy height;
And kind the voice and glad the eyes
  That welcome my return at night.

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where:
For so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak,
I found the arrow still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

Some say your greatest enemy is yourself
That lesser you inside, that little puppet, that elf
Strings to your fingers, strings to your toes
One to your spine and one to your nose
   You can tumble and crash and he’ll be unbroke
Witty and gritty, as elusive as smoke
Post tumble’s when he’s most likely to speak
His strings are strung tightest, whenever you’re weak
   Not to wait then, until you are broken
Give him the stage and he’ll have already spoken
He feeds best on virtue, this gritty little elf
So feed him his share, as you would your belly’s self
   Virtues is the sort, that means then not vices
His tastes may seem bland so be weary of spices
Heed not this advice, and we’ve a puppet…
Left to his own devices
   Not worth getting clever, don’t saw at those strings
You’ll soon find out they’re sinewy things
Introduce yourselves; it could help if you’ve met
The you inside you,
                                  that mischievous marionette

When all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray—
And hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way;

In that deep midnight of the mind,
And that internal strife of heart,
When dreading to be deemed too kind,
The weak despair—the cold depart;

When fortune changed—and love fled far,
And hatred’s shafts flew thick and fast,
Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose, and set not to the last.

Oh, blest be thine unbroken light!
That watched me as a seraph’s eye,
And stood between me and the night,
For ever shining sweetly nigh.

And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o’er thy ray—
Then purer spread its gentle flame,
And dashed the darkness all away.

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brook—
There’s more in one soft word of thine
Than in the world’s defied rebuke.

Thou stood’st as stands a lovely tree
That, still unbroke though gently bent,
Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument.

The winds might rend, the skies might pour,
But there thou wert—and still wouldst be
Devoted in the stormiest hour
To shed thy weeping leaves o’er me.

But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;
For heaven in sunshine will requite
The kind—and thee the most of all.

Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken—thine will never break;
Thy heart can feel—but will not move;
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.

And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found, and still are fixed in thee;—
And bearing still a breast so tried,
Earth is no desert—e’en to me.

"it's august 16th and
i'm feeling a bit better.
michael broke up with
me and then unbroke
up with me. he says
he loves me and then
he turns around and
acts mean to me. i
don't get it. it doesn't
seem right. just saying."

I'd lost my light
I'd lost my hope
Been broken and used
And left all alone
Shattered and sinking
The darker she fell
How she could be happy
You never could tell

You were my light
You were my hope
Took a broken girl
And made her feel unbroke
Plastered her cuts
Made her feel loved
Held onto her tightly
And earned fragile trust

You were my light
You were my hope
Took a broken girl
And tied her a rope
Slowly and painfully
Pushed her away
Ignoring, avoiding
What can i I say

I was once broken
Then you fixed me up
Stood me on a chair
And gave me the shove.

well, im back
guess i couldnt be held back too long, anyways-
and then

man why the heck am i doing all this?
all of this poetry and this stuff?
and i palpably feel the block too-

feel the feeling that wont allow me
just permit me
to say what i want to

instead of these fancy hininks and
CONCEPTS
to just separate me from a veneer;

always,
always in the
rage and its not even me.

yes
opening to
deep darkness - the holy kind; now-

every day is earth day.
poetry is not a nautch girl of the mind
and it deadens me

to see all the potential here that is
used to just stimulate the paltry faint
prostituting of the Divine Soul of the Poetry.

Im sure some of us know of Hinduism?
yes?
so we must know of Rishis too, may be.

Rishis are the sages,
above those of the Pantheons of the gods goddesses too,
in fact, yes, the holy ones fear rishis.

why am i bringing this up?
rishis have a synonym- listen up y'all,
all of you poets- this is about you-

rishis are called KAVIS
seers
diviners

those who have a acute sense
a sense for what the rest of man dont.
poetry is a magickal act,

that the pen is mightier than the sword
is no excuse not to wield both
with skill and the intent to ****.

Poetry relegated to a nautch girl of the mind,
poets are poets because
NIHILIO HUMANIS ALIENUM

and yes this does seem as sermonising,
perhaps. perhaps,
but perhaps this is in truth a request-

we need poets now more than ever.
what is the role of the rishi?
THE RISHIS CREATE BELIEF SYSTEMS

all religions, listen up y'all - this concerns you-
all religions are a porduct of a  poet,
and the poet who uses skillful means to break through the OBVIOUS and LAZY work;

such as - o muni is another word for
kavi for rishi-
sakyamuni or Buddha? yep,

a poet.
anyways-
ahh with that rant out lets break it down.

i truly desire only to be seen
by my family and my old circle of friends
to truly be seen by you, now- and just be said

hey man, i see what you've been doing
i see how much of yourself youve given
and keep giving

and i know youre actually doing this for me,
and seriously man, who are you?
who cares THIS much to help someone not themselves?

who chooses to voluntarily sacrifice themselves and go crazy
so that we know that theres a whole and consummate
PROBLEM with the way things are now.

mostly man, youre not alone
i love you and i respect what you're doing
and I WILL thank you

not in words,
but rather,
rather by following the trail

the trail of following
the ever ECSTATIC call of my own soul
and yes, i WILL TELL you in words

that i have YOU to thank for
all of this.
sigh, yes, that is all i really wanted to hear.

and be hugged a lot more, consensually;
and joined in my party-making;
that is how i live my life

i need some company
with all this DIVINE MADNESS
ive got spilling left right and all eight other

directions too.
just a few Horizon Anarchists,
high on integrity, on discipline

and especially
on TRANS-THEFUCK-GRESSING
and that we simply, o simply, o o o simply-

Drop Out
Tune In
Drop In.

and why?
because it is only dead myths that cause
cancer in our bloodstreams.

and why?
for through poetry we literally create
universes and realities, and the framework for religions.

and why?
because we must own the power we've been
blessed with and repay the way we got it.

and why?
because the earth
is in desperate need for peace and love.

and why?
because this new republic according to plato
will have no need for poets philosophers and fools and thus they rule with their tyranny.

and why?
because we must not leave the unbroke. threads
left behind by our flaming ancestors die out.

and why?
because we wake up every day, count every breath
and rebirth magic into the very culture that chooses to **** us.

and why?
because we
REAL COOL.

CowID

In Bedlam, madness isn’t new,
But THIS is stupid through and through!
The minds collapse, all sense erased—
Pure Lies like poison fill the place.



---------------------


They've twisted minds in endless strife,
Where wretched chaos rules the life,
And turned the souls to frozen stone,
While bowing down to Evil's throne.



---------------------


Don't waste your days awaiting wonder—
This tale is grim, yet all too real:
The vile ones rise, they pull us under,
And rot becomes the grand ideal.



---------------------



Degradation in Delusions

"Mankind has long been lost in lies."
— Laozi, 5th century BC


The ages pass, yet false beliefs
Keep growing stronger every day.
So cast aside imposed deceits,
And let your Soul, not mind, hold sway.

The mind is shaped by fiends from Hell
Through "culture," "laws," and life's cruel game.
Yet thinking still is vital—well,
If reason’s free from drunken shame.

Intuition is your guide—
The Soul and mind in harmony.
Or else the world, in downward stride,
Will drag you back to misery.



---------------------



Race to Hell

"A lame man on the rightful way
Outruns the swift who’s led astray."
— Francis Bacon, 17th century


The world is racing—cash and fame,
A senseless chase, a deadly snare.
And many crash—while fiends proclaim
Their joy in others’ grim despair.

So walk, or crawl, or run if able—
Hell’s road is not your path to tread.
A step toward Light, though small and frail,
Will save your Soul and lift your head.

Fulfill your duty—Spirit calls,
All else is filth, a hollow lie.
Give up your flesh if darkness falls—
The herds don’t race, they’re led to die.



---------------------



False Religions

A service held in Satan’s hall—
They praise the weak, they crown the small.
A "slave of God"—their proud refrain,
For feeble minds bring greater gain.

The schools instill the art of sleep,
The preachers lie, the strong mislead.
Propaganda seals the deal,
And blind submission shapes their creed.

Thus, a MAD ENSLAVED MACHINE—
Hoards of filth, deceit unseen.
Greed and falsehood rule his days,
Trained to serve the Dark’s embrace.

Call it "good" a hundred times—
Will that cleanse the world of crimes?
If you trust the painted lie,
You're diseased in heart and mind.



---------------------



"Scorcher," or the Resilience of Ukrainian Troops

A thermobaric blast ignites—
The Russian fiend its fire lights.
Yet soldiers stand, unbowed, unbroke,
Their will as strong as iron oak.

And so the beasts will fail again,
Their fury spent on helpless men.
Civilians burned in cruel spite—
Genocide, in naked sight.

But justice waits—its time will come,
Each butcher’s name will soon be "sung".
No lie can wash their crimes away—
For Russia drowns in dark decay.



---------------------



Today’s Poet—A Sign of Decay

They fund the cripples, priests, and frauds,
Fake “science,” art that’s made for sale.
But not the poets—what a shame,
A world where truth is doomed to fail.

Want to publish? Pay the price!
Culture’s dead, it’s all a game.
Madness spreads in waves of lies,
Corruption crowned in rot and flame.

For a poet shows decay—
No craft is held in higher grace.
Yet the beasts demand a pawn,
A fool to lead the doomed like slaves.

Driving herds straight to the slaughter,
Draped in “goodness,” robed in lies.
But, in truth, they’ve earned no better,
Bowing low to Hell’s device.



---------------------



My Poetry

They’ve torn my verses, line by line—
A spark of vision, it would seem.
Yet what they truly value’s mine:
I never served the vile regime.

But higher still—this battle fought
Against the Rot that clouds the sky.
For words strike harder than a shot,
And thoughts outlive the bullet’s cry.

No hand will lift my voice to fame,
Yet I have done what must be done.
And hope? A fool’s deluded game—
The blind kneel to it, one by one.