Breaking the pattern.

So much in caress in backtime,

Bright thoughts in backtime,

Everything is possible,

Keep maintaining the possible,

Passed before down to knee,

Low balance impossible to rise,

Many spikes to absorb,

To become the possible.

Breaking spikes to become all down to rise,

Breaking parts breaking souls breaking thoughts that will never change.

Who am i to become,

Low passing by the torture,

For live to life,

That meat become remains,

So i am your meat.

I am who i am,

The meat sudden perrish,

Dont lie the mentioned,

The souls nothing to find; myself,

I want to be the purge.

Thats beating in my mind,

I am bleeding out from the pain,

Nothing to save,

Nothing one can be true,

All begone.

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Only In Fantasy

 Only in fantasy.

Gazing up at the ceiling after waking from a dream, I ponder whether I’ll survive this life. I’m still fighting for it but countless boundaries keep repeating. I’m constantly observing history unfold.

Perhaps I’m just a dreamer, losing myself in my own world. That’s what troubles me. Sometimes I wonder and sometimes I feel nothing. No more lonely nights. Don’t forget me even when the lights go out.

I’ve travelled many miles to live just as my dreams have. But when those miles end everything I live in becomes fantasy – a dream watching people’s lives not their dreams, just a smooth distant journey.

There’s no pain in fantasy but there’s a lot of pain in waking world. Please help me but only help myself. Keep repeating the same things. Please keep me in fantasy.

The Hallways.

The Hallways

Many hallways lead to light but most are deadly.  Never trust lights in hallways; there are so many fake ones. By the time we see them, we’ve already taken pills to believe they’re real.  What we get is just more pain, no help or rescue to break free from this fake pattern. All these fake patterns lead to suicide. Each cell that is reborn and dies is electromagnetic, shaking and hardening the body. We’re afraid to live another day, passing through these fake hallways that might lead to our end. We take pills to keep going but there’s no hope of relief. We’re afraid of it.

The journey might end but we still want to go on. It kills our feelings, shakes our heads and blows up our minds. We have no choices; we just stay dead on the floor, unable to do anything. All the pain is relieved but then retrieved. We know we’re already part of it. The journey takes time but remains invisible to our eyes. The cells won’t cooperate with us anymore. We know now. We’ve taken the pills inside our mouths. We scream and shout but there’s no more tomorrow. To live is to die. Live just once.

We need someone to guide us but they’re rejected by their own fields. We guide our own way, describing our journey to death. We believe that one day the hallways we’ve gone through will choose us to see but we’re hopeless to meet them. We’re sick and proud of our wounds and they may end this world.

We love ourselves but we want to end our pain without anyone else beside us. We don’t want to make people worried or disturb anyone. We see the pain, the hallways and the wound but it didn’t work for everyone. The shock inside our heads is still in war, unsure which to win or surrender.

We’re too tired for all the searching for the remarkable white light hallways. We’re trapped in our vision, trapped in such beautiful fake light that we can’t even see what’s in front of us. The fake can help but not the real. We’re pure in life with such a rainbow entity that can disappear soon. Black in the dark, back into the dark, there’s no rainbow in ours. 

Please take us, not give us false hope with invisible hands if you’re sincere.  Don’t offer us a false vision; it’ll give us an electromagnetic shock. If you think you’re useful keep it to yourself. We gives hint, but no one realize that was a hint.

 

Black Inside Itself.

Thou speakest of God, yet thy hands are empty.
Thy prayers rot upon thy tongue.

Thou preachest virtue, yet kneelest only to thyself.
Thy altar is ego,
And thy god is convenience.

Thou judgest in His name,
But He knoweth thee not.

Thy faith is a mask stitched with lies,
Thy mercy a performance for men.

Thou sayest God walks with thee,
Yet thou refusest thought, counsel, and truth.

What god abideth in a double heart?
What heaven awaits the narrow mind?

Thou abandonest responsibility
And callest it destiny.

Thou woundest others
And namest it divine will.

Hear this, O hypocrite:
If thy god hateth wisdom,
If thy god loveth ignorance,
If thy god feasts upon pride—

Then thy god is false,
And thy worship is filth.

Even death shall reject thy excuses.
Even the grave shall ask thee questions.

Thou shalt not be saved by age,
Nor cleansed by time,
For ego is immortal
When the mind refuseth to open.

Break thy pride,
Or be devoured by it.

For the closed heart
Shall never know peace—

Not in life.
Not in death.

Protection of Life Creation

Protection is no transgression,
But to slay is a stain upon the soul.

To protect demands sweat, devotion, and toil,
To kill requires naught but the hunger of the heart.

Those who shield the weak are scourged by wicked hands,
Those who spill blood are exalted as gods of the fleeting world.

Protection seeks to perpetuate life,
Killing rends the weave of creation.

Protection is born of compassion, steadfast and unyielding,
Killing is begotten from skin, gold, and ravenous greed.

The righteous are condemned,
The slayers walk unchained among men.

Paper is worshipped as deity,
Yet the Living God is forgotten.

Trade to give life unto many,
Not to extinguish even one.

Blessed is he who guards—his reward in the eternal realms,
Cursed is he who slays—his delight a brief shadow upon the earth.

They wail as their kin are torn asunder,
The killer feasts upon their cries, and laughs in the blackness.

The protector acts with purity of heart,
Granting only the sustenance required to endure.

Lo! Great in name is the Council,
Yet their worship is of paper, not truth.

As is the ruler who forgets his oath,
Blind to justice, deaf to conscience.

Cherish every creature,
For they know no sin, they bow to no tyranny.

And ponder, O mortal:
What world would remain,
If thou wert the hunted, the slain, the voiceless?

The Greedy Pride

House, chariot, and hoarded wealth—
These are not the law of love.

They are tools for survival in the march of days,
Not the altar upon which love is sworn.

Love requireth not coin,
Nor possession,
Nor name, nor rank, nor title carved by men.

The covenant of love is sealed by other means:
By sincerity unfeigned,
By sacrifice willingly borne,
By loyalty that doth not tremble,
By honesty uncorrupted.

This is love made clean.

All else is vanity,
A union hollow and already dead.

Beauty of flesh, adornment of form—
These fade like smoke before the wind.

What endureth is the strength of devotion,
The will to stand for one soul alone.

Riches promise joy,
Yet deliver emptiness.

For gold cannot swear fidelity,
And wealth cannot love thee back.

Blessed is the love unchained from possessions,
For it boweth to no false god.

Cursed is the love weighed by riches,
For it shall collapse beneath its own greed.

The Green Space

Gentle upon the eyes,
Gentle upon the heart,
Stillness descendeth like morning dew.

Weariness is lifted away,
Greed is silenced,
Suspicion is undone,
And the wandering mind is made whole.

Green and blue are set before us,
Soft in their holy contrast,
A balm for the soul
In days grown narrow and heavy.

The heart is softened,
The spirit made strong,
Desiring to walk and to try all things
Without fear.

Duty is fulfilled unto the One Most High,
And the heart poureth forth its deepest asking.

Cleanse us,
Remove all stain and burden,
Wash away the dust of the world.

Grant us quiet,
Grant us clarity,
Grant us peace
That abideth.