Lost in my Flavors

Different flavors for different Starver’s
Starver’s starved and carved to be hungry
Hunger as the norm, fighting to steal, deal and wheel under different flags, different colored rags to rent different bags
Fighting as my excitement and excitement within the fight as the knight of my flight
Never questioning the internal fight, internal freight
I am just a dead weight on life

Labels as my walls, walls I have enslaved myself within
I only make pals with those that have more walls filled with even more nails
Pain as my food, my nourishment
Transaction as my traction to that which I respond, to that which I am bound
I seek out those that are hurt to justify my own hurts, my own rotten belief’s

Used and abused, joined arm in arm, justified by each others hurt
I make no mistake in hurting another further, using another to abuse further
For only hurt can hurt, only used can use, only abused can abuse

Life through lenses of substitutions, distractions
Unable, unaware of the nature of the depositions of distractions and substitutions
I make these my replenishment’s, my very institution filled with restitution’s
Begotten restitution’s as my life line and Rewards as my stewards
I am just a sheep to create more sheep for those that wants to reap, forever shackled to this weep and deep asleep
Known only through the rewards, excited in the awards, I tear apart life to the mundane, seeking the opposite of mundane, unknown that Excitement created through the mind of mundane is the very fodder for even more mundane, I chain, stain, drain the very vein of my life rain

Looking for positive in the negative, feeding the very negative
Negative as my scape, I build a cape through this scape with a mask of the positive
Living through the appearances and dissapearences
I play hide and seek never understanding the nature of my hiding and or seeking
Propelled by those that agree with me, those that lift my rotten self
I join those that feed more rotten garbage into the very essence of my life

Choices as my voices, never understanding the nature of choices nor the nature of those that are offering the choices
How am I to come across that which I don’t know that I don’t know
For I am numbed by my beliefs, gunned by the stress reliefs and dumbed by this internal grief.


My’s I life

My, defining the I
I, confining within the My of the I

My, as a memory, living through the memories story
Repeating, reiterating and rejuvenating through this memory
Memory as my dictator, I am just an actor, a rag doll, a puppet in the hands of this memory

Reliving through this My, my very existence has become dependent on this My
Existence as my persistence, my abstinence from everything else
Confining, confiding and enslaved to my memories, I have become the very definition of memory

Clinging to the past, the characters of the past, I have become the very character of the past’s mast (my race, my religion, my country, my culture, my this and my that)
Past’s comfort as my predefined path, I shadow my present with my past
The idea of hate, the idea of love as my dove stringed to the memory of the past, I have caged, aged and staged a different version of the same past

Each idea as the extension of my past, a detention through the past, I am just a pretension of the past in the present
Game and my name, I have no shame to play the blame game
Looking for the same old fame, I invite the players to build up the layers for another game

Wearing the glasses of the game, not understanding the nature of my own imprisonment in the name of the game, I seek out those who wants to play, who wants to lay and who wants to quay my play
Caught in the tides of this play, the only way feel loved, feel nourished is by the game

Gamer’s, scammers and shamer’s looking for another gamer, another scammer and another shamer to justify my way of existence through the validation of another’s existence, feeding, needing, clinging on and creating more of the same to seek comfort, to not have to look at me nor change me, to sleep through life enslaving myself and every other life form I come across

Focused on my dreams, dreams as a result of my past and habituated mechanistic ideas that are inherited, I forget the one who is sleeping and keep dreaming within this sleep of mine

This I call LIFE.
And when there are no escape routes, I see comfort in another idea, in another new scape, that this is all hallucination, just an illusion, just another justification to avoid, to actually look at myself

Life is not in the lie of Life or in the inherited image of life
Life may be in the fullest expression of myself, so I can look at myself, become aware of the self I call myself
Like Truth, life is not predefined and that which is lived upto is just another lie

Life is not in the rules, not in the procedures and certainly not in the bait of the habituated mind defined by the My and the I of the MY
Life is in Communion with life
For, Life is its own life.

Game Of The Self

Games as my memes and every day frames
Frames as my relations to sail on the ship of relation-ships
Every relationship as a transactional play of my betray
I have become a stray, a prey of the very games I play
Living in the Play, playing the same game for the same shame, for the same meme of that same shame with just a different fame
For I know of no other way to delay

Unable to create, disabled to show my hurts
I live in the hurts, to hurt more so I may justify my hurts
Hurt as my concert, I create a life full of dirt
only to blame the other of my fret and in debt of the very threat within my own regret

With regrets I play and in upset I pray
not knowing that the more I play, the more I obey
the more I obey, the more I sway
the more I sway, the more I prey
prey and be preyed on and never that is a pray

Enslaved to my old habits, looking through the prism of this habituated Babbitt
I fill my cup to its brim
Standing on this rim, I long for new habits forgetting that I still am seeking for the comfort of this Babbitt’s habit
Unable to understand the nature of my filled cup, I long for a new label to make my table with the same old fable

Unable to empty my cup, I live in comparison, a division
A division with such precision, its only vision and revision is the decision of division
One division for another, one relationship for another
each division and each relationship as a tether to swing, to cling, to bring and up-bring and ring the swinging from one to the other to the tether to another to the nether

Afraid of emptying the cup, I hold on to the very last drop, the very last crop, even when it is rotten and begotten by the rotten
Fooling myself with the concepts and living in the imaginary hallucinatory ideologies of the view of my glass being half empty or half full
Debating, baiting, rebating, rating and placating in this habituated imaginations of mine can only reiterate my past and never really examine what is

I wonder of the day, a day that I am alive
For each play is a reiteration of the life that was and never of the life that is alive, LIVE
To be Alive maybe is to die to that was alive, so the memory of alive is no longer in that which I live and it is in the Life that is Live
For in the live is the life that thrives, revives and arrives in the live jive


Belief as the boundary of my mind
Boundary as the temporary relief forming my minds bind
Divided in this misbelief, provided by the disbelief
Broken, shaken and forsaken by the strife of this confided grief
I invite the plight of my fright, I plunder in the light of my blunder

Unable to be aware, disabled to care for my own self that I call my-self
I join with those that object, interject and project my own mind
Hand in hand, mind within mind, in each others bind, I bend the realty to make my actuality
An actuality that forms the very lens of constructive destruction of my own minds grind

This destruction as my norm , my very form and the storm, I look for a reform only to renew the storm of this destructive norm
Unable to inquire, I enquire every mire that I can hire, adhere and admire this wire
Living in the hallucination of the other, calling for the causation’s of the nether, leaving the very observations of ones tether to the other, I bathe in this relative relatable relative

Forming customs, cultures and the vultures that feed on my accustomed cultural customs
I hide behind faith, abide by the scape of this wraith for a momentary escape
Momentary escape as my new cape, I live for the pride of this abide making it my abode

Divided in the name of religion, I create legions of regions and provisions of these divisions within my very hidden garrisons
A garrison guarded, regarded, carded and beaded as needed
Traditons as my renditions, I am an abomination to my realizations

Stoned to the known comfort, I take the pain to the boned miscomfort
I breed greed for this misunderstood comfort to form the plead for another lead of this postponed feed

Maybe a movement will arise in the moment I claim and proclaim as mine
to show me that the mine is a meme of the shrine I worship as my flagship in relationship to every dictatorship within

Maybe, I will realize and actualize the conformity to the misinformity instilled and distilled within me to be still and make everything nill
Maybe, I nourish the life in front of me, around me, abound in me and within me
Maybe then, I may see the actuality of my belief, my minds mis-belief and the very nature of the own boundaried reality of my own mind

For, Life is not be staged, not to be caged nor appraised, Life is to be praised
Life is not a strife not a rife, Life is found in the wildlife
Life is not be tarnished or diminished, life is to be nourished, cherished and flourished

So I let go of the past, every tradition, every custom, every belief and every division within myself
I stand naked in this moment and in the movement of the moment, to face, to embrace and to grace the very perception of life within

Me & the Other

When I was born, I was crying and the other were in joy of my crying
When I leave, the other cries for stealing their joy, their memories, their idea of me and never me

For the me I call me, is a relative me that is framed and formed from the fabric of the other
To know the me, to know the I that is other than given by the other, maybe I need to look at the tether of the other
A tether that is non relative to the other and that which does not reside in the other, and has its roots with the me I call as me, the image of the me within me

And maybe when I stand alone, I may come across this tether of the idea of the other and the nature of my perception of the relationship of the other
To get to know this tether of the other is to know the nature of the nether
For the feather and the nether within is relative to the other and the other in the I that is neither in the I nor in the other

To bow to another, to row with another may extend the hand of comfort, lend the land of the concert and justification of the act of non-rectification
And I may never come across the nature of the I that is lost in any of the other

So sound the horn of the Human, Be the lumen that is born in every numen, realize and actualize the Hu within the Human
For to be the Hu, is to be the new in every morning dew
In the new is the true and in the true is the new

New is not a relative new to that of the old
For the old is a memory with its prangs and gangs that gets drunk in the name of the new
Break this gunk, shake this skunk and make one self debunk
To know the nature of the new
For such new, has no knew or new to show the old or the bold or to uphold the so told
Like water this is the very matter that is behind all of the later

To face this new is to travel within, to ungravel the in, and to brace this akin is to make the fuel for my actualization of the realization of that which is burning
Burning within, from which I am running and yet akin from running
For standing has strength while all else are running from this aking

For the kingdoms and the doldrums, the rags and the riches, the drags and brags are all in the with in
So wake up, Stand up with in the up that has no ship of relationship, that which is neither the up of the down or the down of the up and is always around and abound

Love In Action

Love is an idea when in actual action has a different notion, a different motion, a different station to board a different interaction
Ideas are many, actions are so few and very new to the very few that knew, knows of no new

An idea is not of the new when its from the memory, when it has its roots within the penetentray of the memory
Tried and Trekked, wired and wrecked, dried and ducked, walked and talked are all of the memory
Memory is of the old, is of the comfort and of the uncomfort directing me, carving my ideas and the resulting ideals of the I, I call I
To live in the memory is that of self shackled prison in which the prisoner and the guard are the same
The one that lost the key to my shackles and the one that has the key to my shackles is one and the same
Same shame, just a different name and a different game and still of the ideal of the same tame of the shame

To arise from memory is to take shelter in the Sensory, a sensory dungeon
A dungeon that never be the pigeon that flies, that is free of that which weighs me down, forbids me from my very own melt down
Always showing me hope, scarring me of the my nope, my very probe in to the nature of hope and wraps me with a robe of illusory armory in the protection of stationary
For Hope is the temporary temporal twist in this motion to bring forth the notion of the past and relive in the reiteration of the retreat of the past

Past as my mast
Pasts mast as my cast, I see the vast through this cast and the caste of the cast
Contrast as my justification, my juxtaposition to recast the past to outlast the precast, I recast the past in aghast
To understand this nature of the pasts contrast is to avast, is to move with the motion

And when I move with the motion with no notion of the motion, I may come across that is which is neither of the motion nor of the notion
For the motion has no commotion nor devotion and still includes all of the emotion

This Motion has no definition of Love, no definition of this or that. NO idea of love, No comfort of the idea of Love
For it is the action, in every momentary movement of the moment that redefines, vines and shines that which is
And that which is has in it the awareness of all that was and is and never was

Such a mind is neither blurred nor scared or scarred
And is in the state of self inquiry to myself that which i call my self and all of the perceptions of that self
For the inquiry when turns on itself, a different state arises from such inquiry
To experience this, the clearance of this experience in everyday action, in every perception of my every thoughts action has a very different essence to the very incidence of essence

Emotion As Motion

Emotion is not the motion of an age old locomotion
Emotion is the motion of the moment in the movement within each momoent

For emotion is of the present. That which arises from the past has its roots in the memory and is just a motion of the memory and not emotion
To know emotion is to know the motion, to know the motion is to enslave the emotion to the shackles of a memory repeating itself

Emotion maybe like that of the awareness, that is aware and yet never repeat nor clig on to, to repeat the same or mask the same in the name of a different meme, a concurrent name

Emotion is neither devotion nor an explosion of commotion
Emotion may be like the ocean, that is ever flowing and is neither taken from nor added to and yet is in motion of its own notion

Born out the ocean, every notion returns to the ocean and so is the emotion
Born out of emotion, every motion of the emotion returns to emotion to experience the very emotion, to represent the present within the present

In the present, there is the presence of emotion
And maybe when I am able to be aware of the this presence, the presence of the absence has a different presence within the presence of this emotion
To be emotion, to live in the emotion with no recollection of the presence of emotion, maybe then, I may come upon the nature of a very different selfless emotion
A selfless emotion that is not of a self nor of the self and is of the very emotion’s motion

For the emotion to be emotion, there is no I motion nor the me motion nor the myslef commotion
In the awareness of the motion of this Me, Myself and I’s locomotion, I may come acorss the very I that is after the motion of this emotion
An by inquiring this very I, I maybe like the ocean and dissolve all the notions of emotion

Maybe then within me rises and arises the emotion
Like the fire that doesn’t burn itself
Like the water that does’t wet itself
Like the wind that doesn’t feel itself
For each of them know not of their presence and yet are present in the present’s presence
So, I be the emotionless emotion within the motion of the emotion