If someone has a cape and spare time to wreck his castle in no time,
before I join the geeks in line to see red on vals before pool- dead arrives,
while Shakespeare loomed said thou doest like this?
I say I will do like that!
Whether by Elizabethan or UK version or by my own African dialect or insane submission,
true coaster proclaimed wanna bl33 but I sayeth nay! No. Ahh kakai and so and such.
If dark clouds caught up to me Bentham or Arkham helpest me.
For poetry and philosophy caused my fractured psychology…
reading them like bed time stories wroth wormholes in my dreams and released the words that you see jumbled here.
Save me from 10%, dead cell isn’t like red cells but it has the power to place me in cells while not white or green.
If maybe downward to hades was sickly I wouldn’t seem perky with madly deeply and deepest darkest maddest Musing.
I shan’t say Amen just Blessed be.
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The price of true knowledge is madness. To be plagued by great musings on the holes and confusions of insanity for human eternity. To be one with insanity and wander about finding your own bearing.
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I’ve grown tired and weary of this endless tussle.
This madness over traded notes, titles and roles.
I’ve shrunk from the expectations you heaved on top of me,
blocking your senses to all but the reals you wish to hear.
You are the world stage guised as heaven and I expect too much so you plunder at will.
While I demand goals just to feel satisfied,
you expect a cut of dreamy wonders in return.
I’m your circus master and you are my weekend acts,
yet I leave my quarters open to you and wallow in your cage for life.
My heart and a troubled mind are my weaknesses and your slave.
You are Gaia and I am man,
You can judge and I will act.
You will watch me become my own executioner,
live away the pain of my empty existence,
never numb of my nostalgia.
We were born for this journey.
Call it a blind tourney.
Where we’re raised to pasture,
given a misguided purpose.
“Find yourself” they tell us,
they give us that zeal so we psyche ourselves up.
Practice for 9 years and find ourselves in 3more, then decide after another 4 to live 5 aimless decades of marooned delusion that,
adds up to surpass our number.
Along our merry way under a tick tock time lap,
we practice faith to cure our phobia and battle loneliness with absolute culture,
Mingling among some lost travelers who never read of Gulliver.
We grow up to be,
Men lost in testosterone driven myopia in a weak alpha society.
Women with dry hump craving,
jealous of another strong man’s freedom,
trapping him with guilt and male feminine domination.
Its such a vicious cycle,
an endless catch and release phase in a one fish pond.
Good ole society calls it the best sort of living,
an easy limit for the hitchhikers with short vision.
Its a worthless journey,
Letting the present pass us by,
fortune cookies and sooth sayers bring us joy.
Google quotes as statuses we treat as hope,
then forget we ever spoke them.
If only along the line, any man walking with the divine saves us,
let him teach us by the god’s mandate,
to live and see before we follow.
Our journey home to heaven would not be another handout,
a checkout from a library called
The Journey wrong.
A traveller’s thoughts.
some of us can stay sane and walk among others with demons from the for shadows…
the rest cannot bear the memory of the demon at their back
t’is what seperates the strong from the weak,
t’is why some fear death n the rest empathize with mortality.
We are dirt bags behind fake purses, held in high praise by misplaced orientation. A specie on an undeserved pedestals, society’s disappointment to the male generation. We are men with little substance, still enforcing 50’s standards, trained by phallic ancestors, who stuck with yesteryear goals like they were a dogma. While we are scum before Gaya, undeserving of our titles. We wear tiny accomplishments like medals, our strength and wisdom but tattered badges. Heavy burdens forced on broad shoulders mostly built for show and tell. All brawn and might, we’re mostly good as low achievers, Mediocrity is our foundation, so we build small rooms with low ceilings to reach up to, forgetting a skylight for our dreams to escape to. If by some miracle a loner in the lot tries to find a way out, he’s got friends with beer bottles and friends who’re beer bottles, calling for him to come take giant sips before he steps out, before leading him groggily to the next room, to grab and grope in the darkness for warm logs. We’re men alright and once we get older we get worse and scare easy, two decades closer to death’s cold sofa, we let ourselves go without a once over. The angels who look up to us in wonder, will bow their heads after they see failure at that time. And lips that call us heroes, hearts that seek solace in our arms, will become colder and dirtier in time when we turn abandoner. Bailing because we get too old and cant stand the responsibilities ahead that seem to be worse choices than seventy and Hades