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~
Poor deluded brute
he waves his sword
in orchestration
to a ruthless symphony
played for miserable centuries:
the running of the bulls
"sketches of pain"
some monsters come
decked out in hat and cape
inside the arena of his pride
where he hears the chant
within the arts of
cowardice and cruelty
where he envisions
the feathered crown

Gala! Gala!
"how to see the toreador"
lost as San Fermín
pricked by hairpin
pierced by ragged horn
suerte de la muerte (luck of death)
foreshadowing Hemingway
turns into the troubled sun
and underneath his muleta
a deep red
blood alchemy
his fame spilling out
in drips and drabs
as the crowd sings
'Pobre de Mí (Poor Me)'
to the mystic stab of church bells

~
we are made                                                        of nothing
nothing brought                                           to light
   the dark that fell                    upon the stars  
the darkness               brought to life
in an infinite                   regress
the mind cannot       unwrap
we are made of emptiness
we are                      gods




  of the gaps
My Mind the prison.
My Heart and Soul prisoner.

The chains,
Anxiety and Depression.

My Body the canvas,
Mindful of my Oppression.
i spent my life trying to please
someone with a twisted disease
i broke myself down
and tucked my feelings away
to become the person
they wanted me to be
i let myself be watched
through the glass of a two sided mirror
of a sociopath
i wallowed my spirit away
and begged for acceptance
but there’s nothing in the world
that i could do
to let the narcissist know
that i am human too
the only thing that can please a narcissist is being miserable
Living like a shadow
Being the odd one out
Remarkable yet unremembered
Floating in my daydreams
Fighting off reality
Forgetting my priorities
Getting carried away
By life's necessities
And blending into the crowd
At the oddest moments
When sticking out is beneficial
Segments.
Slices.
Slices
of time.
Worlds
existed.
Lives
lived.
Stories
told.
Unique.
Differen­t
actors.
Different
stories.
All
played out.
Real.
All real.
As real
as now.
To them,
as real
as now
to us.
Segment
after
segment.
Actors
come,
actors
go.
Only the
stories
remain.
Told
again and
again.
Millennium
ago.
Millennium
from now.
Actors
act.
Stories
played
out.
Lovers
loved.
Babies
cried.
­Sun
rose
and set.
All real
then fade.
Fade
away.
All important.
Then not.
Just
fade away.
Nextworld.
What’s to
come.
Evolution
fast tracked.
Virtual.
All
virtual.
Real world
sharing.
Real world
fading.
Fading
away.
Virtual
business.
Virtual
enjoyment.
I­dealized.
Consumer
choice
idealism.
Avatar
abstract.
Interactions­
everywhere.
Global
connections.
Unlike
any past
ever been,
ever seen.
New world.
Nextworld.
Unknowable.
Future
unknowable.
More so.
Tsunamis
of difference
over the
horizon.
Batten
down!
Curst be the wretch, and sure he's curst
That taught the Trade of Rhyming first
'Tis a ****' d Trade, and who pursues it,
I'll pass my word at last he rue's it
The above is an extract from a late seventeenth-century satirical ballad I stumbled across in the course of my research. It made me smile; I hope it does you! The title is the number of the ballad in the English Broadside Ballad Archive, an online database of seventeenth-century ballads, should you wish to read the entire piece yourself.
Experience.
Cascading.
Building.
Transforming.
Experiences.
Tumbl­e down.
Slam head
on,
absorbing.
Sculpting
the soul.
Enlarging.
Enriching
the being.
Takes time.
Personal
development
takes time.
Time to
create
self.
Time to
flesh out
ego.
Fine tune
the persona.
Be patient.
Patient
with the
young.
They have
no idea.
Empty
vessels
spouting.
Spouting
inexperience.
Ignorance.
They can’t
know what
they don’t
know.
Till
they do.
Takes time!
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