(no subject)
do i laugh in order to inspire
truth in suffering
blow this hole out of my third insight, my sixth chakakan
tired in suffering
caught in a landmine of past regrets, only to be dismissed by the entirity of my life's progression
for mistaken woh's inspire me and fill me with silence, only to be awoken by the bird of transgression
speaking through me, she teaches her village tribal teachings
like who's the medicine woman, and who's the cook,
from each according to his her strength
to each according to his her need
fighting the elements and holding together as humans often do
making love in the shadow of the earth, in the puzzled moon
it's that time of the month, for rapture and releases pieces
kiss me when i'm off to doubt i can't believe my doubt has subsided
and i'm wondering how i'm so safe now, when before a light was on in the distance begging me a way out of the keyless cage
i hunger for love like a monk working for god
and god is not evil
they are us, surrounded by themselves surrounded by a shroud of cells
placed up on the alter to revel in the mystery like a rumian poet lost for words and dissolved into a nice warm cup of dancing
let me lick your wounds, covergirl
i have what it takes to break your thunderous curls
i sheath what is not mine to inherit, i lay with my nipples revealing their sumptous highlights
of many moons that they wish to revolve around
caught up at a loss for werds, countries marveling in the demons of absurd
the very mention of evil brings a curdling sensation in my upper arboretum
but i am not mistaken, disolved into the game, the game in which i choose not to judge and therefore am not judged
nor punished by the assholy father, but locked up to question my own tyrannies
i fight as i please, with a sword i choose to sheath
that i inherited from ghandi. yes this same sword that was used to tear down opression
lies dormant, as an artifact of my agression.
for mine is the power and the glory of the reader
how ever she or he may interpret thusly
i keep these references on the shelves to be purchased and undersold to the lowest bidder
because without that one person struggling, we are leaving ourselves in the dust, tripping over our cups of coffe, into oversized traffic, while the stoplight plays slight of hand with pedestrians. this is the betrayal of denial, we lock ourselves up only to dissappear and re awake as a self. bloody and torn on every sharp decision. kissing and shouting our ways into corpiracy and failing to tender love and care our seeds
we prune them as bushes to punish chaotic overgrowth, underseen by millenia
i don't subscribe to this fantasy any more
i wish to abort all prejudices and panic no more over my creation, for i am a child who knows nothing. not a thing.
truth in suffering
blow this hole out of my third insight, my sixth chakakan
tired in suffering
caught in a landmine of past regrets, only to be dismissed by the entirity of my life's progression
for mistaken woh's inspire me and fill me with silence, only to be awoken by the bird of transgression
speaking through me, she teaches her village tribal teachings
like who's the medicine woman, and who's the cook,
from each according to his her strength
to each according to his her need
fighting the elements and holding together as humans often do
making love in the shadow of the earth, in the puzzled moon
it's that time of the month, for rapture and releases pieces
kiss me when i'm off to doubt i can't believe my doubt has subsided
and i'm wondering how i'm so safe now, when before a light was on in the distance begging me a way out of the keyless cage
i hunger for love like a monk working for god
and god is not evil
they are us, surrounded by themselves surrounded by a shroud of cells
placed up on the alter to revel in the mystery like a rumian poet lost for words and dissolved into a nice warm cup of dancing
let me lick your wounds, covergirl
i have what it takes to break your thunderous curls
i sheath what is not mine to inherit, i lay with my nipples revealing their sumptous highlights
of many moons that they wish to revolve around
caught up at a loss for werds, countries marveling in the demons of absurd
the very mention of evil brings a curdling sensation in my upper arboretum
but i am not mistaken, disolved into the game, the game in which i choose not to judge and therefore am not judged
nor punished by the assholy father, but locked up to question my own tyrannies
i fight as i please, with a sword i choose to sheath
that i inherited from ghandi. yes this same sword that was used to tear down opression
lies dormant, as an artifact of my agression.
for mine is the power and the glory of the reader
how ever she or he may interpret thusly
i keep these references on the shelves to be purchased and undersold to the lowest bidder
because without that one person struggling, we are leaving ourselves in the dust, tripping over our cups of coffe, into oversized traffic, while the stoplight plays slight of hand with pedestrians. this is the betrayal of denial, we lock ourselves up only to dissappear and re awake as a self. bloody and torn on every sharp decision. kissing and shouting our ways into corpiracy and failing to tender love and care our seeds
we prune them as bushes to punish chaotic overgrowth, underseen by millenia
i don't subscribe to this fantasy any more
i wish to abort all prejudices and panic no more over my creation, for i am a child who knows nothing. not a thing.