The secret puzzle hidden in your name,
Is the most fragrant blossom I suppose,
The moon’s flow is apt for this grand bouquet,
Of magnificent works of hopeless prose.
Composed for the likes of your Higher Self,
Though prose could never offer true acclaim,
Repeating patterns of the number twelve,
Raises awareness, strange pains, and heartache.
Deriving from the heart space are visions,
Past the dense Earth’s air, they have not changed much,
Said events push forth by the Universe.
In His crazy Light, I gladly immerse.
She’s a psycho in her big, brazen feelings. She’s a psycho in her right, a psycho to the tune, immune to alien bites and full moons… a psycho – complete by candlelight. Should she find the time to keep her esoteric guise in place? Should she wear a deviled mask, of sweat, pain and grace, a sweaty beaded bulk inside her rose-colored sun, a drumming of her ego’s quick escape?
Protection in psychosis; her guise plays along, prolonging common sense, her truly awesome fate, extending each and every grimy hiker as of late. Can she find the path with crystallized light inside a song? Should she bother?
I’ve been good and emotional for the past few weeks, but today, all of those emotions materialized in the form of tears. I had so much compassion for the people of the World. Such sorrow seemed to cry out from stranger’s graves – some fresh and unstirred, some old and forgotten. Why did they contact me this morning? Why did I have to be a conduit for the World’s pain? Could it have been a trick of the third eye; that confusion from the World’s mixed emotions is the thing we all need? Confusion is the magic drug that can protect all of our delicate wireworks. Those at the top of the pyramid bottle it, and sell it back to us in the form of our greatest fear. That fear is what kills us. Not them. Not really. Not when the only crimes they’re allowed to commit are invading our privacy, and broadcasting our hidden nightmares to the rules and regulations of 3D. Our hidden nightmares lull us to sleep. Not them. They’re just amazingly skilled at invading our privacies. They know all about the weak points in our armor. Where’s the little bubble that’s supposed to protect our privacy? They make good and sure we stay ignorant to the bubble. They dumb us down to the fact of its existence. The intent is to dumb us down, to take our rich lifeforces as we slave away in the Matrix – while we’re wide open and asleep. Gotta givem an ‘A’ for backmasking emotions – the songs, the tears, the dreams, the media. All of that stuff’s praiseworthy; however, I cannot join their low vibrational society. My lifeforce is naturally alkaline. It serves no worldly purpose.
my mind’s so full of strange designs
find it not of normal land
hand me to the gloomy shrines
which bind it to my frugal strand
the once benign awakening signs
find a shiny mind to slay
at once, I’ll pine for humored times
awakening signs atop the bay
Could this mean that I’ve overlooked my ghost inside a portal?
Come to me in colors – pastels and bubbles. I’m imagining my ghost inside a psychedelic tunnel. Could this mean that I switched it long ago? This clone, could it be a part of your ego? Come to me in a photo, black and white and torn. Come to me with a choir, or however way you transpire, come to me as you would have come all along. Come to me in an astrophysical song.
A waterfall of spoiled ice falls out the don’s trade,
ripping petals, and breaking my stem away.
Do you have to be rough when you water a delicate flower? Can you manage the soil, support its growth in heavy, dire times? Why rub spices on the animal’s meat, when you don’t have to eat the meat? Why eat the animal’s meat? Why break a delicate flower? How can you rip my petals and yank my sprouting stem clean away?
A jaded ghost lurks inside the corridors of my journal. Shall I feed it addictive cake and meet its needs with gullibility? No. I am much too late for that nonsense. Its jaded royalty has been feeding off the emptiness in my Soul ever since childhood. The physical ailments I experience are byproducts of this emptiness. In ignorance, I continue to feed it addictive cake. I cannot meet its desiccated needs with innocence, because my ignorance is what it survives on – it survives on my ignorance and addictive cake in excess. Ignorance is no excuse in this matter. My ignorance gives rise to the matter, to the jaded ghost who lurks inside the corridors of my journal. What artlessness rides alongside it in the night’s wind?
A psychedelic seed with wings
Exploring worlds through imagination.
In a black hooded void it brings
Boring swirls of confirmation.
I see my friends beyond the gangster sun.
Instability for the ones left back,
Clarity in the end –
I wonder ’bout my friends beyond the sun.
Clarity in the void beyond the sun.