A little less of the world today

Flush out all of the need to know

I can’t even remember the face of that foe

Or why I feel guilty for deliberately taking the blow (Strike)

A little less fiending to stay informed

The more they know the more ignorant they act

Today I am going to forget there ever was a thing called a ‘fact’

And look for fewer things to react to or demand someone redact

When you preach you only reach those who are willing to listen

And often they only do that cause of how your words glisten

Pretty monologue but the meaning behind the words are lost in a smog-

of sorts inside their minds —a mix of irrational reason and curiosity

say the right words, they giggle or clap; say the wrong and they turn violently

so a little less indulgence in that today

its time to allow my innocence to play

It is always weird for me to address ‘you,’ ‘they’ or the ‘world’ because I never felt akin to any of those things. I constantly have a strong sense of dissociation from everything around me. One foot in this world and another foot somewhere else, so to speak. So I am learning to accept that there is no ‘other’, just me (that is, what ‘I’ sense and how ‘I’ interpret it).

If you are reading this, and you are ‘real,’ then here is a quote that may help you: ‘If you can ponder in-depth on what you counter, you are its reflection.’ That is to say, you are what you are fixated on even if you hate it.

If you are not real, then that is just a reminder to myself to not overindulge in the ‘technical’ details of this dream—a type of paradoxical illusion…whatever that means.

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What is trauma?

Taking accountability

While bearing the burden of responsibility

Just to have your sense of tranquility

Gutted for someone’s entertainment

Enter the tainted world of likes and views to show amusement

My chaotic mental state leading to their frantic hate

A sliver of a horrendous year reduced to a viral video

Now the ‘community’ is fuming at me

But the truth of the matter always gets edited out

Cause the grayness of the situation will never get their fixation

Looking down at a jigsaw puzzle you almost finished

One last piece and that will be the end of the scrimmage

Between you and the scattered pieces

Order from chaos

But the last piece is nowhere to be found

And when you look down

the puzzle depicts

What was lost, so you can’t figure out

If you are accomplished or impoverished

A perfect event that your ego claims as it’s best amigo

Everything in its place to make life seem out of place

Disarranged, rearranged, and maybe a little deranged

In a way, it’s terrific (splendid) how horrific it was

An event worth remembering

because it was all about you

A stimulating thought whenever you want to feel blue

There are levels of how you look at emotions, memories, events, etc. Even trauma can be broken down into just an imagined thought that is centered on you being the victim. There is nothing wrong with that though. However, it is just a thought. So think of a traumatic event the same way as you think of a blissful time. It isn’t really the event, but instead, it is how you feel about it, and no matter what, the best most relived events are centered around you. You can’t escape the ego. Creativity requires a perspective that is dependent on your sense of self. In the same way, when creating reality it requires a purpose which is nothing but you picking a perspective and defining everything from that one viewpoint. That is your trauma. That is your bliss.

Pain, emotional or physical, is real. I know that too well. However, notions of pain being good or bad is not.

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Beauty is everywhere

But showing love or hate is cruelty

That is an attempt at ownership

Which leads to you demanding showmanship

You missed the point

Now your ideology has eclipsed the beauty

It’s like defining the divine

You will just get lost in rituals

Making belief habitual

So you pray in the same way

A telemarketer reads a script

God is by your side but you are

On a telephone hoping for a long distance

Connection to perfection in hopes to

Embody circumspection

It’s like a string of thoughts, images, and words emerging. I just do my best to make sense of what is given, dress the concepts up, and make them rhyme. Is that creativity or me unraveling while losing touch with reality?

Anyway, all things are beautiful. It is a matter of perspective. So, it’s not about finding beauty in a tainted world. It is a matter of what you do or want to do with the beauty when you find it. All I am simply saying is maybe just let it be.

If I was you

I wouldn’t like me either

Cause it ain’t you that I care about

I’m talking to myself–lost in an echo chamber

You are a concept in my silly mind

objectification goes beyond misogyny

If I don’t insult that is just a missed opportunity

But in my mind, I am enlightening you, just imprudently

But how can I educate something I don’t comprehend

You are an avatar, a tag line, and slivers of art

Merely pieces of you digitized after you fell to pieces

Maybe after you were criticized, minimized, and stigmatized

That is how you civilize–get children to believe the lies

So you aren’t even you.

Institutional indoctrination is merely someone coloring by numbers

We are the crayons.

Cheer up. You are a pretty shade of baby blue

In hopes of a breakthrough before your dreams fall through

Because even as a baby you knew the blues

And they wanted to educate that out of you before maturity

Even if mortality was certain.

Does it seem like I am talking to a person/persons in particular when you read these poems? In my mind, humanity is nothing but a imagined idea based on assumptions from what people speak/write or act out. Therefore, you emit stimuli (lets call it energy if you are spiritual) and my brain interprets it as it will. I call it reality. But I know reality is just a idea then. So it can’t be real, in the all engrossing way, because reality can be defined.

Basically I am normally stuck someplace between where the stimuli (From you, the world, etc) enters the brain just before reality is imagined based on what was sensed.

There aren’t “people” when you think like this. There are only patterns (call it Synchronicity if you must) all linking together in some sort of supernatural webbing. I speak on these patterns. So, I am talking to you, but in the same way I am not.

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Where was I before the light show?
sad, depressed, lonely

Debating on if I am a phony

Or if my loneliness is of holiness or emotional moldiness

They create generations of invalids then call it mental illness

The insurance corporations swoop down

now you have a pill and name for this

But what is this?

You wanting bliss as you dehisce at the emotional seams

You could fill a ream about the social indoctrination

pulling your puppet strings

With citations and cross-references

(He said that. She did this. I can’t believe we live in a world that…)

but your creativity is in a state of passivity

that means you criticize from a state of unshackled captivity

Dumb it down?

You are the product of the world that aggravates you

So your anger is calculable and a sign of insufferable ineptness

So, like you, I turn on the light show (Phone screen so bright it just feels right)

You like the news cause it lights the fuse

Soon it will be time to discharge some stress and riot again

Did I offend?
I meant: you like the news cause you choose to be amused

By the same dreadful beauteousness that gives you the blues

So you can buy different products of various hues of uselessness

Damn, that is no better…

Anyway, I get you either way. The light show is better than pure blow

Flashing lights are interpreted as a sign of purpose

Which we use to amortize the weight of the world on our shoulders

The only problem is that the ones projecting the light

Should be the ones frightening you cause its not the world

On your shoulders but it’s their ideologies and policies

That have monopolies over slivers of your mind

and it all starts with the damn light show

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What were you before the light show

Computerized visuals, repetitive jingles

Mixed with rowdy commentary you aren’t allowed to speak

So instead you glorify and regurgitate

Or hate and debate on its validation

While too afraid to place your humanity

On display. Limelight gives you such a fright

Yet you indulge in a show and won’t even budge

Until it is over. He said; she said. And you fed off the dramatics.

An addict that is fanatic about getting daily updates

on the lives of other primates

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The garden rejoiced when it lost

its gardener, that protected it from the foreigner

and staked gateposts—its armor

The hand that fed was soft and benevolent

but truly possessive as though hell sent

Before the gardener, unblushing innocence

In the foam of wild growth.

The gardener saw an unkempt project

with beauty in mind, he slashed

and hacked away until formulating

conformity which was calculable normality

All was natural as the gardener

Saw it, which in essence was always

a perversion of what should be

When the garden’s shears were away.

Blood atonement. The laws create the sinner

But for as long as the gardener lives

There will be perfectly measured perfection

down to the sliver of a scent. A marvel of beauty

For all around.