Why does one think the way they do? Beyond cognitive functions or temperament, past reason and logic or belief and faith. Why does one think the way they do? They say genetics, they say external stimulus. They're right. But still, why does one think the way they do? Schools of thought, moral values, deeply rooted in all people differ greatly thought-out our much same race. Opposition defines our species, has molded our minds. Where from? We don't know, but origin aside, the cause is simple: the hiss of the parasite of thought creeps in all the dank channels of free thought. Some are overcome with the vermin, some are unaware they ride on the back of the water snake. All succumb to its delusional poison.
I don't know if they really need it,
that doesn't mean I won't speak it,
Working on my words constantly,
That's why my presence can be seen as an anomaly.
You're locked away, but still on the streets,
That's a metaphor for what I wanna be,
But change prison to the future vision,
And turn the streets into a living mentality.
Crazy motherfuckers going rowdy,
Or professors in their studies,
I'm interested in bloody revolutions,
Cuz in this day and age we're out of solutions,
So I must rage against what I know,
Dive into the depths and find death or mo'
The revolution will not be televised
It will be filmed on phones and in mass video,
The spectacle of the American wastelands,
In 2016, full of martyrs without dreams,
We watch the government scream cream to god and nothing comes back down,
Has god lost his crown or has He never had one?
Are we ruled by man or are we gonna take his guns?
We fight and cry for nothing, for the man's money,
So we gotta run it, and we gotta gun it,
We gotta come up under it and tear the roots,
Stop focusing on the loot and instead on me and you.
I lower myself and bow to knowledge
Honey eyes burn gold,
Soft lips spit vicious truths and
I hang on each word.
Carve Them to Ribbons
Carve them to ribbons; blood-soaked furrows,
Your thigh bears tracks long and deep, beaten by beasts of burden; your devils bare teeth at strangers, but you still wear them proudly.
Are they an illusion of strife?
A desperate or calculated attempt at an unreachable goal?
A tale of courage or a lie?
My shame is your pride,
Do you not understand my confusion?
Argument is the spice of life, but one must have a balance of flavors.
Time has muddled perfect perception,
My mind is not so strong;
I can only say that through years of friction,
Together we've written our own song.
Sombre melodies pieced together
With joyous raucous harmonies
Our hearts, it seems, have been tethered
In frantic, terrified emergency.
Afraid of solitude, you from all and me from you,
Adding urgency to our loving tune,
Listen to a stupid kid croon
Promises of imperfect love, false truth and commitment,
To friendship, the future; an oath to stay through some conniptions
I sit with you in sorrow,
Your words rush through me as mine rush through you,
I pick my words for greatest effect,
How do you choose yours?
Do you favour beauty or hilarity?
Is the gruesome secret of existence present in you?
Or is life a gilded petal, floating on shores of mercury?
Tell me not in so many words, one or two shall suffice.
As music bears souls, words bear life
What makes the desert beautiful?
The reason it's hated, the reason it's feared: heat and sand and hateful winds carrying blindness and death.
You look at the land and claim it's hostility and condemn it's savagery.
You try to change its soul and make it your own, but the desert belongs to the desert.
In its barren sands life still persists, in forms both great and small.
Grand cacti and sparse trees offer water and shade to the small rodents who borrow for bugs, who get picked up and carried away by birds of prey. All the while the sun beats down until the coyote howls.
Vicious it may be, grating against more delicate senses, but the desert is the desert, and that makes it beautiful.
pain is everything
I prefer extravagant death and fear the Lord.
I don't believe in fear or what I'm afraid of
because everything is terrifying.
I talk to nothing because it listens well.
I stare into oblivion because It’s the only way I can see you.
I write to keep demons out of my head.
I bang my head to invite the pain.
I suffer to live.
I live to find new meaning.
In finding new meaning I found I never had one.
I have fun in meaninglessness,
I find joy in nothing,
I'm nothing until I'm everything,
I prefer my mind to your reality