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

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Drifting Bodies & Shifting Minds

Drifting Bodies and Shifting Minds
Gifting memories with rifting experiences

Living in the differences, finding the difference within the difference of the difference
I have become a nuisance to the wants of the indifferent
Flicked by each one, flipped by everyone
I am no one to raise the one in each one

With no dimension to mention and with no mention of a dimension to make my illusory mansion
I await in the depths of my breath for my dear friend, death

Death as a memory to relieve me of my memories, to relive another memory
I am tangled in the web of my own fury

In a world that bows to the glory, I make my story a fairy
A fairy story to makeup my dairy, A dreary dairy

Bounded by the pleasures of the flesh
Hounded by the measures of my minds mesh
I am found within this mesh of the flesh

Bodies as a manifestation of the thought
and thought as expression through the bodies
I have become an extension of the thought of the body, living in the knot of the shoddy

Unaware and unable to recognize the nature of this thought, I go about being a feature of my own drought

The thought that is crowned, the thought that is downed, the thought that is abound
And the thought, thinking of the thought of the thought that is confound may come across the nature of its own nature
To liberate, to desecrate, to negate, to disintegrate each thought and every thought

Maybe here, maybe then, I may come across that which is not of the body, through the mind of the body nor the knot of that which is taught
For the thought that is not caught, is not of the taught and not of the sought.

Glorious

Adrift

Rush

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Love, Memory & Thought

That which springs from the memory is not love
The mechanical repetition of memory is not love
The re-iteration of memory and reliving of memory in billion different ways is not love
And the inheritance of memory of love from my environment is not love

The pleasure of a memory is not love
The fear of a memory is not love
The escape of a memory is not love
The experience resulting from memory is not love

That which belongs to me, that which I think is mine, that which I think I posses is not love
It is only a memory, a memory of the thought
A thought of the memory

so many thoughts, so many not’s
so many not’s with so many knots
so many knots with so many thoughts

My own thoughts and the resulting memories are my own confinements, my own comfort
The more I try to escape, the more I try to cope, the more knots I weave, the more memories I cave myself into

How many thoughts till I am free from the memory of thoughts
No thought that I know thought as the thought

From no time to time I create time
And from time to time and in-between time, I create a space, space for a time, for a thought

Can this thought of mine be free of memory, can this thought be free of recollection, reliving of the memory?
If so, what would such thought and the resulting action if everyday life be?
And most importantly, what would the resulting I that I call MY, of such thought be?

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Perception of Love

Many times I define love, many times I deny everything other than love
I speak of the love as the only one, for I have none to match the one I call, the one.

I say to my girlfriend/wife that I love you but then, I dint even know you existed few months ago, few years ago, few decades ago
I say I never know what love is until I met you
Do I say that because I have defined love as the absence of love and now I define love as the absence of that absence of that which I defined myself as love
I wonder if that is love

A mother says to her son, I love you, but the mother doesn’t even know the son until she conceived the son/daughter, who was this son/daughter before then, where was the love before?
So, Is love that develops with progression of time, experience and memory?
Is love that comes and goes as I will and wish?, Is that Love?
Rather than condemn this thought, I must consider it!

Is it possible that I define and speak of love as if it is the very life itself, a life that contains all of this illusion of perception of this and that
So as to make me feel secure and keep my illusion of security and comfort going,
So I am intoxicated in this illusion of mine and never to wake up to question my perception of love?

Do I speak of love so I can keep a lock on love
Lock on all that speak of love?
Maybe this is why I don’t want you to change, nor question myself, for then, I don’t have to change because the you don’t have to change.
Maybe, this is why I am so attached to my labels of my race, my country, my religion etc. in my every act and in my every thought I think
May be this why I encourage you to speak of them as well, divide yourself from me as well so we can divide ourselves and I don’t have to change or give up that which I hold on to, cling on to
is this love?
If this is love, then I wonder if this is actually the attachment to the experience of the mind and the memory developed from that experience

When all else fails to satisfy my clinging, my dinging of what I hold on to, I say, love cannot be defined, it must be felt
Forgetting that I am still defining love by un-defining love, in feeling love.

When I cut open my skull, I see no thoughts of hate or love. I cut open my heart, I see no sign of love, so where is this so called love?

Maybe, rather than asking what is love, for that only shows the quality of love
I ask myself “why” do I feel certain way when I “think” of hate or when I “think” that I am in love or I am loved?
Where is this perception of mine coming from?, Is it from this body?, Is it from the others body? And when the other ceases to exist first in my thought, what is happens to love?

Will I then be able to understand/feel for myself, the actuality of that which is happening within me, the awareness of me that I call me
Maybe then, I can no longer hide behind the words or the illusion of my own perceptions and its security/comfort both mentally and physically.

And maybe then I am naked, “COMPLETELY” naked inside out.

Friend

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Body as my Thought

In my world full of bodies
Bodies full of thoughts, my thoughts full of bodies
And thoughts full of thoughts about the thoughts of bodies
How am I to know my thought and my body

I spend time looking at the bodies, craving for the bodies, to satisfy the body
Grooming my body to be of the perception of the thoughts of the bodies.

Bodies as memories, memories as thoughts creating my body, my thought and the resulting experience
Only to realize that the “You” come on your own terms, the you, leave on your own terms
And when I beg for you to come back and you mug me on your way back
How am I to know why am I a result of the body?

I wonder if I avoid my perception of the body, it will devoid my thought of the body
so I burn the bodies thinking that would turn my thought
only to realize that the thoughts I thought would turn, gave me more bodies to burn

So I sleep, sleep walk thinking I am awake
Thinking of awake from my sleep, I say to myself that I am awake for I can walk
Only to realize I am in sleep walk and sleep awake

No thought to think
No thing to do and no where to go
I am a slave to repetition
I tuition my mind to the repetition of abomination
Making Abomination as my true notion, as my nation

Seeking pleasure in pain and pain in pleasure
For the nectar of pain is sweeter than the emptiness
Sweeter than the no thing that I have to face

For my face has million masks to make me gasp every time I look in my own Cask
Maybe there will be a time, a moment in time to look at my time to realize that I have no time

For the You has everyone and the I have None
Maybe then, I wake up to clean up my makeup

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Scarred Mask of Man

Great Wars are fought, Great scars are marked
On the Face of the earth and on the mask of the man
Wars remembered but the masks still rotten

With the rotten masks, wars are fought again and again
Only to remind me of my rotten mask

When I speak of war, I speak not that which lies beyond the walls
But I speak of the war, that lies within the walls I have built
For the walls I built is the reason, is the very reason for the season of war

Blood is spilled and the hearts are chilled
And I bask in the memories mask of the bloody heart
For a bloody cold heart can only create another muddy heart.

The memories that were drilled, made my thoughts dulled
Only to fortify my walls and prepare me for my battle
The battle that rattles me within the confinements of my walls
As I color a rag, call it a flag, raise it on my back, to carry it on my crack.
The crack in my very heart and in my very thought

Not knowing this, I go beyond the walls to tear down the others wall in the name of protecting my wall

The more I tear, the more I wear
The more I wear, the more I smear
The more I smear, the less I care
And the less I care, the more I tear.

When I realize this, I realize its time
Its time to tear my walls, bore out my battles and pour out my bloody heart
For the heart that cares, never scares nor scars.

Planet

Impression

Scars

Carve

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Escape to a New Scape

Some wants to Escape, Some wants a New Scape
Some wants to Escape the New Scape, some wants a New Scape to Escape
For some wants a scape that is a cape to cope with the escape

In name of hate, in the name of fate
In the name of the love, in the name of the dove
I play the same game, again and again for the same gain
I say the same name, again and again for the same pain
Wanting the same thing again and again to cling on
For repetition has become my petition and my repetitive petition has become my imagination
Imagination breathing through the respiration of precipitation of the anticipation, anticipation to escape

With my hand full of experiences
Mind full of memories
I live in the thoughts with knots and not’s
For I am caught in the knot and I fight the not

My fight has become my flight
My night has become my light
And In the name of light, I take my flight
and in the name of flight I hide behind the might
Filled with might and the imagination of light, I lost my sight
For my sight has been blinded by the darkness & brightness of the light alike

Thinking this is light, I escape to another scape
A scape formed from my own memory to commemorate my memory of my repetitive imagination of the same name and the same game, Same gain and the same pain
Which I label my life
For I know of no life.

Anticipate

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