When glancing through the mental pictures
Of pure and innocent babyhood and childhood
(Pure and innocent, in the righteous sense that
Of being distant from and unknowledgeable of
The mischievous pranks of elder humanity-
‘War, ******, treason, terrorism and all felony’
Which contribute to building a senseless world,
Composed of a grown-up and misled community
That claims ‘mature’ and acts immature.) ,
I regain true consciousness
Of the wisdom I possessed as a child
And of the folly I bear along now.

It’s a truth undeniable that I state here-
One lives his/her life the best and most best
In the un-grown, underdeveloped human form
And the un-waiting glide of time transforms
Purity into impurity and innocence into guilt,
Maturity into immaturity and wisdom into folly.
For when humans understand what’s right and wrong,
They advertise their tendency to choose the wrong.
Exceptions, in this case, are rare to note down.
As much as the wicked world of today is concerned
And in general sense, mere physical growth
Undermines necessary moral growth.


Now here, being a part of this wicked world,
I sadly reflect on those joyous days of old
And in this present age, I try much to recollect
Those sweet memories of childish virtue.

Finally, I am able to open my mouth
And Breathe
Without tension or stress.
No longer must I hold my breath and tighten my chest
And conform, appeal, or impress
The expectations, vanities, and stupidities
Of certain personalities.
Now,
I progress.
I have tolerated and waited,
Filling up the quotas issued by the blind
Outdated, unknowledgeable of the strife,
Of how many times we have broken down
And forced ourselves to shuffingly, reluctantly
Gather our pieces with disconnected, searching hands
And red-rimmed eyes.
For our will was to continue
Playing the game to be accepted into
A bigger game that offers
A paradox
Of freedom and responsibility.
I ordered the pocket-sized portion so
My portable paradox will have never have to leave my sight.

Manipulated the masses
through media.
Clear the air
for an explosion of silence
before the first acoustics
pierce through the ears
to the spongy minds
of the adolescence.
Close your eyes and
imagine the edited sounds
of the juxtaposition,
clashing the rhythms and melodies
mixed with the reprised chorus of
repugnant magnitude,
meaningless crybaby lyrics
and off-key utterance
with agonizing commercialism.
Corporate record companies
hide behind thick black velvet curtains
and produce highly profitable garbage,
so bad that it sounds like a
dead baby being slapped
against an untuned violin.
Pulling the strings on
radio stations like marionettes
to spread these undesirable
golden oldies like wildfire.
Using and abusing music television
to overplay videos repeatedly
until it nauseates your innards.
These puppet masters reel
the uneducated into the
blackest tar pits and capture
their gray matter for eternity
to what they believe to be
is acceptable music.
Unknowledgeable and unaware
of anything else in existence.
In a world that makes haste,
we don't take the time anymore
to appreciate what we listen to
that actually fulfills and pleases
our soul, body and mind.
Generation after generation
declining into the sludge and slop
of objectifying and degrading compositions.

Record stores hold sanctuary.

Providing hidden gems and treasures
for explorations.
Rummaging through the LPs and EPs
and scrutiny of 45s and 7 inches
to find the pearl in the oyster
concealed under piles of
flotsam and jetsam,
thrift store throwaways.
Music lovers are like
archaeologists and scuba divers
rediscovering obscure rarities
in old crates of the deepest,
darkest depths of
mildew basement cellars.
One moment before the next,
in the highest fidelity
as the needle drops on the licorice pizza
and off the twang comes
the lovely wax statics
of the most ******* reverberations.
All the little hairs stand upright
and tingle the back of your neck
and arms as the notes
flow off your fingertips
and you fall into a
complete state of euphoria,
like a Buddhist that's reached
Nirvana.
Gritty Maestros of the underworld
construct celestial symphonies,
so soothing they can tame
the wildest beasts and
orchestrate the most
diabolical spazz noid cacophonies
as the high frequencies skirmish
through cracked speakers.
Music can summon the demons
inside you while reaching
therapeutic climaxes
simultaneously.

Death be not proud
You strip us our loved ones
Leaving us tormented and hollow
To what end shall we be in pain?
Indeed you need not to be proud
For there is nothing pleasant
The basis of your deeds is unknowledgeable to us
What we know is only that it hurts
Deep in our hearts and thoughts
We know it's never gonna be the same
The means to which you fall upon us is unknown
What we know is that the ends are piercing
Death be not proud
In God we trust
In his grace we rely
All that burdens us we give to him
For we believe he knows
And we have faith that he will see us through
His sympathy is genuine, his love is eternal
He remains our pillar to eternity
Through him we shall heal

We all go through something:
hardships ,
Pain,
Love struck ,
And love lost
We all go through something ...

We all go through something That will challenge us ,
Makes us,
Break us,
Show us,
Teach us,
We all go through something

But...

How we all go through it will
Change us
For the worst or the best ,
Make us stronger or weaker,
Knowledgeable  or unknowledgeable  

But..
How we chose to go is what defines our character and who we are

Tales of love submerge the child into depths of hope,
Lines of motion echo through pools of emotion,
Chilled on shards of an amateur heart,
Cynical ideals over power tides of romanticism.
Once upon a stranger  granted access,
Dark secrets within bricked traps,
Spat his poision exhaled in a sputter,
Taste of unknowledgeable lips, swine to thine succulent innocent touch of her.
Child ingesting sodium infused water as each forewarned vision becomes reality,
Drowning in the sorrow of a long lost soul,
Fire licking every breath as hollow pain escapes.
Once loved in the arms of serenity,
Now forever cursed with self doubt,
Reflections of when she died,
Symbolism parallel to the devil falling to individuality,
A beloved angel fallen, pray Lord hear prayers, twisted beauty long forgotten in the game of control,
Shards of heart litter sidewalks of fairy tale creations,
A child dies, as a woman ascends from the pool of femininity.

Tracing the hour,
The distance I follow,
Wands and Auroras,
These echoing phrases,
These expiates of shadow.
Angels and Sailors of far of seas,
Ghosts ships of carrion,
This unknowledgeable surrender,
This last ember,
A blazing Supernova.
This rung down the ladder,
Barkok and Liszt,
Stickball in high summer,
Unraveling spector
Of chariots and Pharaohs,
Matresses of mourning,
Days of black shoes,
Pairs that tread the same dirt road.
Venturing clouds,
These invisible evenings,
A burned mound of wheels,
Converging signals
Alinged to one.
Horses braying a symphony of dust.
The end and the beginning Never touching the middle,
Straddling curve space time,
A stratosphere of clouds.
Cobweb hung planets,
Their rings revolving
The shining simmer
In the final arc of sun.
Just outside Nebraska,
Down Highway 1A,
Charles Starkweather Haunts
Gretchen lost ghost.
The dark specter residing
In old Elmer's cornfield,
It moans and shudders
The grave hours passing
Like strands on a string.
Bombardiers blasting
The last metal gun tower,
As Churchill railed the invading Blitzkrieg,
Sending out the Valiant
To apocalypse the hour.
Long rainy seasons,
The trees weeping
The last wilting flower's lonely despair..
The rim of the hour
Dialing shadows dreary filing
Down corridors of clocks,
A Canticle of stars, the dark night revolving,
One billion Angels sing to the light.