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Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Sick Again in Prophetic Poetry~ Lyrics ~ MobiusTripz

I am feeling all Emily Dickinson,
sick and twisted all over again,
melancholy mental manicure and an air,
of eerie demise wash over the soul and body so spent.

Betrayel comes swift and fast like a horse,
and who upon it sits often surprise and coarse,
Edgar Alan Poe's epics make my life look grand,
The Cask of Amontillado and easier chartered course, man.

In Shakespeare's Hamlet, I take main stage,
I myself a Hamlet, lost in idealistic rage,
never ceasing questions seeking the Truth,
tragedy comes when no Trust, self and greed so run aloof.

I seek the Utopinan tapestry as portrayed so vividly by Walden,
I am a renaissance man at heart and soul, with the eye of a tiger,
a fight like a streeter, with the will of A God, and Justice gleaming in my eye,
because the Eye perceives what is false or Truth,
distinguishing by sight truth and lie.
Utopia false or real, forward let's all strive.

I sparkle like Tiffany stained Gothic glass,
see what you want to see,
In that light is where I shuffle wrong for right,
seek forward such righteous zealot destiny.

You mess with me, you mess with my family,
then ,my family tree, then families times three,
and three, and three, mess with me you mess back to yourself,
do the math and the numbers of your time,
the answer is always the same,
when we mess with one another we ruin each our own lives and names.

The meaning of life is living the daily life so offered each day,
in a principled and proper way seeking what is right,
and not wondering how or why, sometimes spit in your eye,
survive, be strong, truth finds truth, lies beget, and therefore, lay with lies.

He who thinks me holier then though,
question only their own unholiness,
not to be demonished upon knees pray,
I am He that fills that void,
and also so equally flawed as you,
but I know a proper simpler better way.

Choice be made?
change possible any moment, second, hour or day!

William Blake images appear,
visions he had so very very clear,
a painter, poet, minister too,
many perceived an odd recluse.

We know his works still,
forever so esteemed,
he dedicated life to a larger misunderstood,
idealistic dream, his arts, like Poe,
quothe the Raven again, evermore...

Stephen King, he knows some pain,
comes out quite twisted and entertaining in the end,
From what we read so voluminous,
what is inside the mind can only be more tremendous and stupendous.

Burroughs, Thoreau, Walden and me,
in my mind's eye we share time and destiny,
that moment happening now tell me which words to write,
Hiking in these dense woods and finding myself again,
centered, focused, understanding and in my soul Free.

The abuses upon the body and mind are merely temporary,
the soul set free one day relax breathe so extraordinary,
decisions today pave roads of tomorrow,
hurt along the way find balance and symetree, keep life, and be free.

love you,
love me.

(symetr(ee) = (y) ), a play on words and math