I've been through this many times. I carried humility like an evil little garaboncia of resentment. The heavy shackles of despised destruction, secret promises-guarantees for better and happier tomorrows. Many left-behind eccentrics flocked to me, until eventually they too soon wore off and ran out.

He held an angel-scented flirt, a charm-grinning look, and if I had to, I showed: who, when and where can it fully prevail? I gave everyone - who hasn't told me yet - a chance for a second fresh start, so that this time they could get to know me better and really.

I put before them the trust of true friendships thought to be forgotten. – When suicidal, wandering thoughts began to take over, and there was no one to talk to or report to.

People with families have a million times more to do. And instead, they appointed more fluidly the official, legal, online connectors of friendships. Rather, they distributed the right to make false promises and links among themselves. "I've been through this many times."

In the neighborhood, a baby-child screamed in a nerve-wracking way, as if this was the only way to protest and argue with the existing Order. Connived and frivolous, sooner or later everyone gives in and even the gentle stars lie down from the high sky. Those who have had a secret assignment here and there cannot forget for a single minute that their existence as a cultural rescuer is more and nobler than even everyday challenges!

Caught on the merciless defiance side of indifferent shadows, in the lap of filth-powdered wind-funnels, what can be identified as defenseless or even defenseless, I wonder what will happen if a person is insidiously mixed up in sterilized gestures and movements with an unflinching, statue-rigid face?!

The life belt of objects that provide intimate security will surely soon let go, while indifferent look-alikes stuck on the surface dictate the latest useless fashion, for trends. Even the unfinished things are not allowed to be properly completed.

Even the most beautiful harmony often becomes like the flapping of a butterfly's wing stuck on a needle. With a transparent umbilical cord cover, it would be nice to be securely attached to Someone even on invisible threads.

Without wings, the dreary days of Time swing in our unconscious self. Man has already become a leech, a parasite, rocking on the shores of Nothingness, lost in purpose: his swaddle is lack, and the even more useless emptiness, which - no matter how much he wants it - doesn't ask!

Unlucky souls, they all slide to the ground on the broken ice of the moment. The insidious creatures of the merciless, hectic hustle and bustle of everyday life could hide behind their contours. Disguised messengers and prophets of bygone times are forced to roam around in the bushes.

At a time of lurking, enticing, riotous danger, legend-dropping darkness, brainwashed idiots dream of just such fairy tales. – In the stillness of the wind, it becomes more and more difficult to break up the hazy night.

You have become what you never wanted to be in your whole life; closed book, closed door. You never denied yourself in a million ways, because you were guided by "be true to yourself" in your shipwrecked life; even so, you were pushed aside many times, trampled on, deliberately laughed at, and amidst the shackles and cries of public shaming, at least one person who would honestly lift you up would have been fine , and it helps.

A deafening silence embraces you with wailing despair, eternal promises that come to nothing, just like ice drops, sooner or later start to melt. You can't really warm up to a single word now, since most of those who stayed out there betrayed you a bit by always only promising their affairs and that they would visit you in a dignified and faithful manner. Your convulsive clinginess has become more of a curse than a blessing.

Distances have been impassable for a long time, because you don't know who's motivations might lie behind each manipulative, petty-puffing decision?! Ghost-shadows lying on the edge of alleys comfort your stubborn temper, even if you go behind the scenes of a sparsely lit, dim street detail. Now, all time-wasting rants are grouped into senseless, cacophony.

Your truth-begging sadness, just like your self-conscious orphanhood, is still holding on, but - maybe - not for long. You still have to somehow scrape together tooth and nail and preserve your inner independent freedom, while - for now - they can't censor it, and they can't even ban it. The grim, rowdy, petty man-million damns me! As a stone on the side of the road, somehow you're just out there listening more and more humbly!

Sooner or later, the person himself will be crushed, he will compromise in the indifference-silent uncertainty that drags the averages; it is necessary to clean open stigmatic wounds daily with Lethe water. Will and just compromise kills with cursed Nessus poisons. It would be good - at least - once in a while to evaluate things and actions from the other side in detail to examine an essential, significant perspective.

Duplicated, meaningless, pitiful chattering mouths should be locked. Your mother's protective wing can comfort and cherish less and less; after all - says the World - you yourself became an adult as an eternal child. How did you really cry out your miserable, shipwrecked childhood?! Hard to believe. If every five minutes you still find yourself crying in a dark, lonely alley, where even the saving tiger light can penetrate less and less often.

- Now the rude, snarky Time is asking you some Apocryphal question marks; the self-awareness wearing the Janus mask disguised as loyalty and trust is branching out, looking for a selfish and stubborn place. Whether it's sliding down from the edge of steep banks that collapse at any time, it's rarely worth giving a helping hand - you often feel that your everyday worries have towered over your head, and it would be better to retreat once and for all to the universal tower of silence.

The constantly falsifiable facts seem to constantly raise their hangover faces at you, while the hungover, groggy mornings unexpectedly hit you in the face, you know: The world is never ashamed of other people's sins, because it has never felt guilt, moral inhibition - not that much - but it has never felt. The unsmiling, rat-gnawed pulsation of the city is also becoming more and more unrestrained, giving rise to repulsive nausea and nausea...

The Ordas-like night roars like a flute in the Senkiház wind. A population of wild fowl scurrying around human animals scatter their disposable Janus masks. On the face of two crypts, a worn, time-stretched memory wave-law rattles, while large stones bearing witness in tearful eyes toss and turn to their heart's content.

On the frozen backwaters of trees with skeletal claws, crows' wings croak and flutter, proclaiming ominous myths.

I don't intentionally wander in jungle machine music, in a peppered crowd of people. Rather, in the tame warmth of my home, I try to wait for the mysterious destinies of the blind and invisible threads of Fate.

In curved mirrors, my familiar face hits me. Snarling disguises and bloodthirsty men swirl in a buzzing mass of cats. Another year passes and I question myself: Who was I once? and who could I be now?! In another life, the impersonation of myself could act bravely, armed with temperament.

Even then, he wouldn't want to beg for validation, immortal love, final permission to die. I've already built a solitary confinement, a cage around my onion-skin soul, because everything I once believed in can't be degraded into an insidious, calculating lie?!

The rainbow can be broken into pieces by the light, if the gullible eye allows it as an optical illusion. Therefore, it is better to feel sincere emotions with beating hearts, when I feel that every superstitious look has deceived and deceived me at the same time, as if the secret, heavenly signs and every honestly spoken word were just tinsel toys, I don't want to be angry with anyone anymore, I can only quietly make a separate peace and then die out!

disclaimer:
a long poem, tumbled out complete,
feel free to *** along

<!>

a poem that does not need writing,
scripted once before(1), sung this song,
nonetheless the heart purges,
then
newly urges
for fresh eyes to revise

for each second, four new babes come
into these world, estimating that one
will be infect by poesy, and there is
and yet,
no-known/cure, there be no disturbance,
no Cain mark distinguishing,
no sign from heaven,

so this enlivening disease, sometimes takes
almost a generation to bud, blossom (4) and pollinate the world with its unique nectar, uncontained, unconditionally & uncontrollable, and naturally,
incurable

by you awoken & aware of yourself
as a carrier, the strange heart rate
display of your EKG, that the doc
cannot explain, with that extra heart
beating beat (2) revealed, tell them not
to worry
it’s ok,
it’s a genetic
that makes you
tick
that’s yours
distinct,
and

there is no cure expected, no foundation advertising for dollars to lead the fight,
maybe one that does exact opposite, but no
matter, the infection becomes a condition,
with symptoms diagnoseable by the
colored gleaming lights in your
aggregating eyes

then comes the days of
frustrated declination
when every undisciplined
***** ditty wordy rejected,
crumpled and to the round
container sailing,
that’s the pain for the gain,
though all natural talent marked
by higher standards
self~imposed,
for only you can judge
when it’s good enough to satisfy
the judges observing,

the ones astride you
on each shoulder,
censoring the trite,
******* you back into the fight,
and soliciting you to go easier
on that body
for it already contains
all the nutty nutrients
that will combust
into a poem
that will be any equivalent
to an
******  of
new life breaching the
mind’s cautious customary warnings

so much more to tell,
by way of example,
who are the
predecessors that give me instant inspiration,
in the expectation of periods of
Saharan drought, (3)
the need to jot every random thoughts,
for oft
we compose in drips and dabs,
every birth owns its own timetable,
took Cohen ten years
to make Hallelujah satisfactory,
theiving so/too much of your time,
until the best distraction arrives,
announcing the following;

“if I did not truly loved her
it would be causas belli
should I fail not to
bring her an ember of
coffee”


but writing in the moment
is a stupendous momentous
so smile sweet,
tell her where to go,

where
the mug with Hawaiian scents
awaits, and let her lover
decompose what needs saying

immédiate
right now!

so by way of closure
I ask you
why
are you still reading this too **** long
soliloquy
and not
stariing into a world
of words
all your own?
<>
for
inscribed upon your every breath,
are
your words,
a trickery uniquery
to which

nothing will ever compare

When a POET DIES,
There WORDS LIVE ON,
They KEEP US ENCOURAGED,
MOTIVATED and STRONG
There WORDS DO INSPIRE,
To LIFTING us HIGHER,
When your DOWN AND OUT,
THEY MAKE YOUR DAY BRIGHTER,
A PEP IN YOUR STEP,
you FEEL MUCH MORE LIGHTER,
When a POET DIES,
There WORDS they will STAY,
THEY'LL CONTINUE to INSPIRE US
to this VERY DAY!!!!


B.R.
DATE: 1/10/2024