One must work out how to work alone
before one can effectively work with others.

Everything is a joke;
you get it or you don't.

If you don't:
the joke is on you.
If you do:
the joke is on you.

You see, in Life,
it must be learned
how to laugh with it,
to address it head on;
lest ye be forever ******
wallowing in darkness, fear, and ignorance.

Inexorably,
we all are victims
of cosmic punch lines.

Laugh with it:
it always gets
the last laugh.

Embrace thy Shadow:
for it is you
when you fail to be.

One kind word can change a person's entire day,
but beware, for unkind words can do the very same.

As I think of the things
you so readily left behind,
I think of the ways
in which we are the same.

As I lay in the corner
hunched over in tears
you stand before me in shadow,
we've not spoken in years.

"How are you, what's it like?" I implore,
met with comfortable Silence:
Enlightenment galore.

Though you have not recently
been in this realm,
you seem to be fine
and quite underwhelmed.

"There's nothing quite like it"
you reply with a grin
"It's almost like someone
got rid of Sin,"

"Why is it you wish
to know what it's like?
Perhaps you would like
to come on a hike?"

"No, I'm not quite ready
for that I'm afraid;
I've too much yet to do today,
there's much Art to be made."

"Ah yes, so I see
this seems to be true,
but who cares for such Art,
Art made by you?"

"I care not for how many care for it,
but I do care that anyone does at all.
I wish to immerse myself in all kinds of expression,
to preclude a sort of subconscious regression.

I care not for those who seek profit, like you,
but I would like to perchance become a Prophet anew;
though not of an -ism or even an -ology,
though perhaps for some secular abstract new-found old Spirituality.
One wherein all is but creative Godself
looking at itselves
in trillions of shattered mirrors
upon multidimensional shelves
and, odd though it may seem,
All is One through it,
yet as separate, All dreams."

"You, my Child, may be a gift unto Man.
Were I alive, I'd be your number one fan."

"You flatter me, Apparition,
but you were already my fan
far before my Path ever even began.
Still, I must ask, if indeed I can;
O familiar Ghost, tell me, what is thy plan?

"My plan, my Child, is to live on within you,
to continue your journey upon this thy subtle Path.
To set ablaze this boundless passion I sense within you.
To live in the shades of greys between the Black and White
To know that you are alive.
To know that you ever lived.
Your Mother and I both deeply love you
and though I have died, I live on within you."

And that was the last
conversation I had
with my dear old friend
that I had in my Dad.

T'was not in the land of the waking
this conversation was had,
t'was in a dream he spoke to me,
my ethereal Dad.

I seek neither pity nor compassion for Pain,
I seek only to try to explain
the infinitely vivid field of Experience
to which we're all subjected by some strange spirit valence:

*Thy Path, thine in Time.
You walk it for a reason,
even if obscured.

Time unfolds thy Path,
yet before Time was it set;
thine and thine alone:

Let no thing stray thee from thy Path.

(Disclaimer: There is no blame here!! Fret not. It's impersonal.)

You* are a snide, condescending, shallow and self-absorbed person.
You treat others like dirt with what you imply
You show respect for only that which reminds you of yourself.
You build a firewall for certain people without ever learning the first thing about them.
You're a vacuous shell of misfounded hate and synthetic blame.
You need to stop being so ******* 'matter-of-fact' all the time.
You make Narcissus proud:

Antagonist to a story of harmony,
you're a heartless
and presumptuous
attention-*****
of self-loathing.

Projecting your Shadow and your desires unto others, as if they were a silver screen
and being disappointed in them when they
"fall short".

You claim to be in a position of clarity, of authority, of understanding.
You seem to be in a position of self-assured ignorance and of delusion.

You covet the attention of those who would worship the ground upon which you tread,
but those who worship you could be the same you push away in your fit of self-righteous rage.

As you read this, you immediately think of those who you quantify as these things
as if people are subject to quantification, much less by your standards,
without ever recognizing the poisonous signs within yourself.
As you haste away in guilt, you forget what you could have learned:

"This reminds me of me when I forget to keep myself in check."

Everyone is fallible.
That gives neither you nor them the right to use one's fallibility as a weapon or source of leverage.
Anyone who does so willingly contradicts the very way of the universe
and is thus harboring a great and powerful evil,
not that of another,
but that of your self.

* If you do not dominate the powerful Beast that is your Shadow,
you will be absolutely enveloped by It.

Blame is a corrosive projection of Ego.

I'm not sayin' that she doesn't love,
I'm just sayin' she has love like poison;
and, no, not the good kind of poison;
an innocuous enough seeming poison
of which I wish ne'ermore to partake.

We had neigh incompatible sorts of love,
yet seemed rather complementary as lovers.

Now my form of love is to
remove myself completely from her,
to remove each and every last trace;

I mean it not so much with that intention,
but that result seems to be a side-effect of
efforts to remove unnecessary contention.

So be it.

I can only hope it's not outrageous
for me to claim it in the name of mercy.

Sometimes
I feel that life is a gift that I don't deserve.
While there is abundant beauty and infinite wonder,
there is so much pain, suffering and despair.
While I wish the pain would subside,
I know such a desire is fruitless
as existence requires suffering, or it at least certainly seems that way.
Every action and non-action propagate ripples which may never calm.

Life is a paradox:
Why? Why not? How? How could it not?
Illusory, yet real. Constant, yet with cessation.
Joy, pain, excitement, dread, disappointment, elation, fear, birth, death, now, never

So much that seems wrong to one person
all done just because our circumstance binds us
to things we'd rather do without.

So frightening is the notion of death, yet so painful is the concept of life.
Sometimes death seems more comfortable and desirable than life.

Lost in thought, found in confusion;
I think my life would be a gift better utilized by someone else.
I feel like a failure. A plague. A source of disdain and pain. Confusion.
Mostly to myself, but I've seen the effects of it on others, as well.
Sometimes I hate life too much to live
but some flame yet burns within me
demanding that I feed it oxygen and inspiration
that causes me to yearn for yet another breath.

Besides, what if I were to die tomorrow?
I might as well live today
while I still have the chance.

Life is a relatively unrelenting Beast:
Ride it or be Eaten.

Experience, that is to say Life,
is a series of implicit lessons
which you have the power and freedom
to accept or to ignore.

I recommend acceptance.

If you don't accept the lessons as learning experiences,
surely you will eventually have to come to terms with them.
Perhaps in this body,  but perhaps not.
Perhaps soon,
perhaps now,
perhaps in a few years,
perhaps in the past.
Perhaps in a dream,
or perhaps in a posthumous DMT trip
(Wouldn't it **** to create for yourself a bad one?!)

There certainly seems to be a cycle
to which we remain bound
until we learn
how to wake up
to what we are

Live
your Life
for yourself;
nobody else can
live your life for you,
so you must.

You've gotta take it as it comes
and do the best you can,
if that isn't good enough
a true friend would understand.

When someone says
"You've changed"
with a negative tone,
it simply means
you've ceased to live
the way they wish.

I invoke thee, Society,
to tell me which is worse:
An ignorant and reckless populous
or
an educated and reckless populous.

I see it as the former being worse.
Seeing as people in general
will seemingly always be reckless,
the latter allows for safety and precaution
as the former only allows for accident.

Logos without Mythos-
a bird without wings;
Mythos without Logos-
a feather without a wing!

are brooms with ulterior Motives

Right at this very moment
there isn't much on this Earth I'd rather do
than interlace our fingers
and look into eachother's eyes
  and nip at your ears, collarbone and neck
as I make sweet, passionate Love
to you.