About Daiikiru Akasha Maximillion

I am...

Plain… as day.

Plain… as day.

Same ass day.

Over and over.

Done and done.

The race is for the swift…

The swift to judge.

To condemn…

To cast aside.

The hand that feeds some

is riddled with their teeth marks.

The turn of the tales… be el.

Ease into being all “S” on chesty.

Rush nothing…

At the pace of nature

even rapids take their time.

Make ours… worthwhile.

Earn more…

Earn titles…

Shake them off.

Greatness has no arrival line.

Often humble beginnings though.

Until the advent of wanton pride.

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This moment…
Free…
Free of… free from… free to…
We love. We’ve come… We’re true…
to the essence and aching bones.
We dance from the depths of our struggle
into a new light sans bubbles,
awaiting bursting.
Reality… simplicity… authenticity…
the slaking of our thirsting for greatness
in uncertain times and strangeness…
even amongst kin…
Pretense stings…
Leap into wins…
We’ve been weak before but we’ve wind in our wings.
We soar above thermals of turmoil
to our rightful space.
All else fails so true calling can prevail.
All else pales… comparison is futile…
So is hate.
Right on time comes the rain.
Right on time comes teacher and king…
when readiness is evident.
All life is God paraphrased.
All names are pseudonyms.
It is what it is.
The word is not the thing.
It is just what it is called.
What does it answer to?
What brings it forth?
What brings it back?
Perhaps we should just give thanks
and leave it at that.
This moment…
Free…
Free of… free from… free to…
Live gratitude.

Exclusive.

I collect and compile.
I cut and paste.
I post ‘pon platforms.
I never tag…
I’m never caught.
What you get away with you have to keep.
It is catching dust.
Is this neglect or being prolific.
When is a work completed?
When are we completed?
Is death a goal?
Where lies heaven?
Will we care there?
Amnesia is a bummer… Sometimes.
They forgot me as I hid.
I forgot me bit by bit.
I came back in need of a feather duster.
The scale… The scale…
My heart… My heart…
No tipping.
I paid in full.
I pour out my heart…
On the page.

Tendencies

Tendencies…
Frequencies…
Tempting me…
to resent the leap
it took for me to leave a peak
for verdant valleys
and urgent tallies
of recurrent follies
that humbled and brought wisdom.
I tumbled across visions
interwoven with religions
‘til I read words telling me to let it flow.
So here goes…
Here goes nothing and everything.
Here goes a heart open to aches that furrow brows.
The clever reign where the not so clever feign that they know.
Faithless… the turning… the yearning
for a space where nimble mind may alight for a time.
We seek surcease from uncertainties.
And trade them for the clinging taint of certainty.
We sell ourselves out for comforting back pats.
We sell ourselves short cavorting with our backpacks,
heavy with the accoutrements of our acumen.
We carry untold treasures.
We tarry on cold ledges awaiting the faith for leaps.
While the faithful sleep like bambinos exhaling frosted breath.
By frost the bow and bridge are called to being…
chakra shades and all.
Sacral space evolved…
The lower being and higher being merge.
There are no lanes
in this endeavor where forgotten pains
emerge and make it clear nothing is forgotten.
The ill-gotten goods you unconsciously despise
for what they remind you you have become
if you are mindful…
If your mind’s full… Empty it.
Breathe a little.
Reclaim who you were born to be.
Let that which must die die.
Reclaim your throne…
Don’t frown here in the darkness.
Feel it as it goes.
Don’t call the law.
Embody truth… again.

Errol Percival Jr.

01

Thought pollution

Streams of interpreted information
What revolution?
Cycles of same like seasons or holidays.
You conform too much.
You contort to fit your fate…
Colonizer’s crutch.
Man, help yourself up.
This is us.
Earth is us.
Nations are bluffs.
They separate unity.
Oxymoronic…
Imprisoning with impunity
so you can’t see the you in me.
I’m not puffing chronic.
I won’t waste medicine.
I’m already high enough.
Clarity grants me prescience.
I’m most high when at my lowest and still rise and take my stance again.
Sometimes spirit is all I can rely on
to bolster me to defy odds
like the many Neos and scions of Zion.
My life has always been challenging.
Fitting… as I am a champion.
A champion of the cause of freedom and authenticity…
A champion composed of reason and intensity…
A champion a warrior with a poetic propensity plus a profundity proclivity.
Pulse; beat.
Chorus: I gotta live with me.
So no sleeping with the enemy breathing on my neck like I’m caught in sleep paralysis.
Waking dreams of vacancies at the top of the food chain yet not animalistic…
Nah this is that Natural Mystic.
I’ve been flowing through the years
unbeknownst to those who are not my peers.
Hmmm… Who are my peers?
Perhaps those who add verse to the equation and alleviate fearful conclusions that the world is destined to maintain the illusion that domination and destruction are strong suits or improvements and not progression towards losing… everything priceless.

Something New… The Old Way.

I won’t borrow style.
I will burrow into my wild, wild best.
Diminishing returns…
Impoverished… It burns.
For there is so much to be brought forth.
So, in I go.
No bars to hold,
No scars to jade,
No point to prove,
No one to entertain…
My pen is free again.
As am I…
An awakening proved itself necessary.
So slumber shan’t stall stories from monumentally being built.
I relinquish my previous entries and exit onto a bare field.
I reminisce back to tabula rasa
(stated as status no more or not quite as much…).
I do due diligence in documenting the passage.
All is passing…
All this passion…
Result…
I’m enacting purpose filled action with no outcome attachment.
All is dancing…
So I smile as I type.
My pen is metaphorical.
It is rod, staff, caduceus… if you will.
I will… aligned with divine will…
I am of divine ilk.
Hence the divine ink.
Connotation to the winds…
Convocation of the wins…
Dusty trophies.
Batty belfries…
Cathedral palsy.
They say the best things are to die for.
But aren’t the best things to strive for?
Successful struggles are ones we’re alive for.
It is easy to put words in the mouths of dead martyrs.
Who can truly die for another?
Yet who am I to cast anything…
least of all aspersions and assertions?
I am I… That’s who.
I am I. Is that you?
Then act like it.
To hell with political correctness.
Deception is war. So is politics.
It is a war on the use of your own good sense.
We trade responsibility hence power for the security of authorities
then cower.
Am I doing this right?
No! If you have to ask.
I’m just doing me.
Proud.
This one is for free.
Loud.

Peace.
Crowned.