Division Devoid Run Ons.


Division Devoid Run Ons.

Everything’s Me Me Me,
like we’re warming up to sing,
neglecting our other selves
for the benefit of things.
Either that, or we fill our hats with feathers to the brim
and lose it all upon encountering weather bearing  high wind.
But wind is truth; disillusionment proving
that what you cannot see with your eyes is there, and its moving.
Doubt and confusion signal the ending of illusions;
uncertainty about that which is stated as fact,
due to realizing it’s all just bootstraps.
Imagination confinement; these are new traps.
This bucket of crabs cannot hold agile cats.
I defy logic with every single breath.
In order to think for self one must remember how to forget.
Forget limitations and boundaries to thought;
these created cages in which mind is caught,
And you along with it because of all you’ve bought.
Uninformed consumers overpaying for naught
but authoritative musings; houses of cards
awaiting the very same high wind
or a child mind to point out the simplest of flaws,
which the complexity wrestling adult mind never even saw.
How pompous we’ve become,
inflated by what we’ve learned,
floating away towards the sun;
Icarus balloons…
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Hmmm…
Who are they silencing now?
Discrediting must have failed…
No asylum…
No jail…
Just blasting away with unfastening nails…
Then they use you as an example, if your story sells.
Martyrdom’s kinda dumb, when you balance the scales,
as they pervert what you’ve said and done,
so even if it prevails it still pales,
in comparison to the real essence of your ideals.
Oh my…
Everything’s Mine Mine Mine…
Salt, coal, and Diamond…
Perverted priestly pillars… pedophiles and killers…
Sodomy concealers… Not pointing fingers…
This is what we’ve all wrought…
By action and inaction…
By favoring factions…
Bearing Blinders to infractions…
Preserving prides like lionesses hunting…
Not swinging for the fences incessantly bunting…
Never passing or running incessantly punting…
Passing bucks though, these PUCKS are so cunning,
feeding you your own shit on the bloodiest stake,
which buries you rather than the vampire it should slay.
Dracula could pass for pale preacher or pimp.
Dressed to the nines; sharp as his teeth…
Bloodsuckers of the poor; that wicked ten percent…
They collect it… That’s them…
Providing rocks for stems…
As the clergy clings to them and sink into a spiritual morass…hooked
Lost sheep that can’t advance without that shepherd crook…
No flowing body soul and mind, just intercession by the book…
“Trust and obey.”
“Be a faithful slave.”
“We speak for the ‘massa’…”
“Better do what we say,
if you want to escape the hell that we create and throw in your face.”
Well I’m “sorry”.
The master/slave dynamic is not my cup of tea.
No matter how you slice it… No bullshit pie for me…
Thanks…
I’ll play the cards I’m dealt, be they poverty or wealth.
My entire worth is not on the table. I’m not wagering myself.
Placing bets with petty pittance…
Just a test; I pity the players
that only have this card game
full of poker faced bluffers,
card readers, ringers, and lying motherfuckers.
I sit at the table to garner some lessons,
Then return to the inner sanctum where realness isn’t missing,
smiling, washing away the duplicity in meditation,
and penning captured thoughts documenting the changes.
These Pieces are snapshots of me tattooing the pages,
creating art as I implement my strangeness,
that I’m not prideful or shameful of, yet I’m openly embracing,
just like I would you and yours when it’s devoid of faking.
One love.

Daiikiru Akasha Maximillion