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| the art of being |
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nebula | counting to six | the number of a man | the art of hate | commissioned | to be |
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i retreat to a desolate existence where heart is nonesense to soul of another.seen only in me, the philosoph of a season is rendered: this season in which i dwell.battle i for faith. i tend to lose it or at least site of it momentarily, often. it teases me.i'm not broken. i act. other times i don't but accross i come in meloncholy manner. though accidental, complain i don't. i enjoy.attention? not it. it's beyond deficate due to rejection. it's something else. it returns to me like a dog to his vomit so to speak. it's explainable only in shapes and sounds. allow me to take you there.encode me, do. i wish for purpose but am threatened as the average. suicide my better foe.meaning is gone. it used to tickle. it used to be real. now meaning has abandoned me. fickle as fragile i be. it betrays me and cheats me.alone is all i am. empty is all am i. crying to all the wrong places, alone i mingle with the stones.am i? could i be special? if not, i am not who i say i am, for whom i say i am, i may not be.
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i sleep. i am whatever i want to be. i be whom i will.haunted by the day's happenings, i test the way things aren't and am dissappointed to break.while i'm inside, it's the norm, but i miss myself once i'm no longer dead to the world.it's here that I can be. outside i act and filter. here i'm free.concoction of fantasy: anything can happen here.good or bad, all interesting and mentionable later. reminiscion sets in and i live in non-existence of the passed death.piercing my skull and lulling me to bondage, i hit it to it's own sleep.unrelenting, interupted continually. i resserrect. i break.
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the number of a man
they say to stand in line and speak their words. i dont know what they mean. then they'll take me apart and turn their wheels and make me a machine.
my deposit proves positive and i set out to tell the tale of young. see, chronology of literature according to date.empty art sweats from those bound by industry. those pedistaled by mindless sheep bask in glory of apes or mangled culture.true and real art makes no friends nor gains purse for his lover until death couples left the equation.these artists are few yet balance the remainder of humanity. sheole proves successful and the work is recoginized.examples of these higher beings infest history. the unfuture showcases those born before their moments.sadly excentric, genius poetically claims the lives of these few. art separates these from the sheep. known as goats they are.i claim to be whom i describe. i pray in years my claim will be proven for the sake of people, my soul and the name for which i stand.in this age none the less, i shall touch and go and all shall hear and feel strongly either loving or hating. in this age, all stories told will not be ignored. |
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