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Glowing Red

Symbols, distance, far away was he. Candles lit, on him a hit, boring was the wait alone. Great was the day. Lovely was the night. Day after day, instances of fear in his operations. Signaling the new world, constructed with rickety wood, nails bent to the surface, and tape around his mind keeping it locked behind regulation. Crushed was his soul, the day after his mother's death was the day he would have regretted being so closed. Being open wasn't an option. It wasn't there when he looked to the right as his soul danced to the song of the world, he lay his head down in shame. Abused by his own head, giving, after all, his life away to the majestic taunts of skulls and crushing bones, he lay on his back looking to the ceiling. "How does life accrue in such deadly ways?" , he would ask himself. The answer lies before him, but he hadn't wanted to face it. Creamy suds, the midnight duds, and creating a distant world for himself, passing out with his
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My Precious One.

My precious one, That lies in the darkness of the sun, I fear, there's nothing I can do for you. I've remembered your cries, I don't know which ones are lies, I can't seem to see the real you. We can't look back, I can't bear to see your eyes sad, I will fall victim to the blue. Green swaths pave the road to your soul, My brain, and my heart have taken a toll, Precious one, do you bid ado? No more lying; Let's live with the stress. I know this relationship was once blessed, But now, its tainted. Our minds were once painted with swerved willow trees, And all of their dancing leaves were connected through one branch. And at that time, we had beautiful visions of having our own ranch, But these were all lost to the moon. "There are things you don't know about me", she said, And together, we split the last of our bread, As she tipped her flowers upon her head, "goodbye". I sat there, listening to the crunches of the roadside, Watching her

📔 Journal Entry 2: Changes

 Some will say the day comes and goes, And some will be caught in its glory, or even its deadliness. Days will go by either way, whether you long for a better tomorrow, you have that better tomorrow, or you are nihilistic. At some point, the recognition of your stay isn't enough, and you will disappear into unwatedness. And then you will even have thoughts destroyed of your being. Wishful thinking breeds your mind, your will, your want of virtue, and even your love. But this wishful thinking, although it's your essence, is completely disregarded. Sometimes there will be points in your life in which destiny has no direction. Those points define your desires. Those points are really sharpening you, as an individual. If matter is you, you won't be alive in matter. Consciousness is not real, you are simply too difficult to be alive. And yes, you won't be you anymore.

Whore.

The dusk is to the Dawn  As the crowns to the peasants, There lived a full girl on the top of Mount Pleasant. So refined and drooled, Her waist was all full, She sat on her stool Awaiting a tool And from the tool She would grasp the meaning, And the voices in her head would not be demeaning Before the rooster crowed And the morning cow huffed, The girl took a deep breath and out came a puff And the puff blew her voice to the store And the voice was heard from the first floor And the sound echoed back from the door "Woe is me, the holiest of whores."

📔 Journal Entry 1: Snowflakes.

 Reconvening, in and out of reality, was a single man's thought. Oh, how this man was confused... There seemed to be pearls in his eyes one moment, and the next he were to be in a not-so-lovely place. Things just happened around him. Thoughts were splashing on a canvas in his mind. People from different corners of his social group gathered as he entered a new reality. Piles upon piles of emotions developed in a single notion. And then poof, feeling still remaining, but experience readjusting for a different life. And suddenly, sitting again here comes the unreal, doubts crossed his mind as he rose to the tower tops of the world. The only thing he had to blame was everyone and everything. He hated all as he put all of his twigs of doubt, reluctance, hatred, annoyance, guilt, deceit, and evil all bundled up next to a stone of his root. He burned this pile of twigs, and watched as they manifested in hallucinations of different times and places. In one eye, he saw his father suffering,

It's A Stats Game

Wake up, interim afoot Slow down, the silence is endearing. There's blood shed on the porch It's Thursday once more Grasps, rattling at the floor And here stands that assurance for tomorrow Peaking through the clouds The sun arises And peaking through my brows My eyes open to the fog. Heavy hearts of the percocet Blinding shadows of death in my sight And firing, barrages of love and harm Emotions rattling my core Fast bullets fly in my kitchen The stool falls to the floor I can't live like this I will die before I lie. My heart is piercing my eardrums God please forgive my thoughts, But I don't believe in you. Restless geodes dancing in the air, I can't tell if they're real. Spinning, swelling tears of a man And happiness of a war left me. There lay on my back, a receipt Five ninety-nine for a prime specimen The money spent on boozed dreadful women Beckoning calls from the sky To the director of events Whom thoughts of cheery concerts rushed in their head. Black

The Tax of The Poor

  Grumbled rumbling of the mountains in the air tumbled and fumbled all through the lair. In the lair stood a man on his deadline, three hours and thirty before his adult prime, and listening, thorough, and beautiful sorts, out of his pocket his last wealth short of a full, and glistening in his eyes, tumbled and fumbled through his prime. How he stood, grasping his look, and ferocious precocious ashes and soot, gathered on his brow, and low and behold his damned fatted cow was yelping, spinning, and breathing his heads deeper meaning, leaning and gleaning, creating a different breeding ground for his death. How he differentiated his time and money, this man couldn't tell what was funny when he looked around and saw, fat thick browns and the law stated he wouldn't be allowed to be poor anymore, for he would have to be looked at by the ones that wore Gucci and breathed the same air that he breathed. The homeless innate to his health brought upon him lack of wealth, a