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Carpe Diem Ad Muertum
Sieze the day, to the death. There is no potential that shall be passed by, there is no piece of glory to fall by the wayside, there is no soul to left unsaved by the brilliance of language. As writers, we are gods.
Pyrotechnic Symphony by a Blindfolded Man
It's not fair to start it that way.
It's truth enough and raw; better than you give most days.
You have a point.
When did you wake up?
When he needed me.

---

Because I am equally annoyed
by all things around me
the sound they make surrounds me
flash and eager eyes
“realize my wise disguise”
lies! to themselves, unknowing
as they strobe magus robes flash me
with obscene scene alpha stage brash
in lashing color crashes

except for the hidden light within
the saviors of internal imaginary origin
but external irritation plays the sound beat organ
s
i
d
e
w
a
y
s
reckons my will with shrill heart-sichord
banging flanger from guitar dissected trill
the harmony light will
envision my will
as cacophony glares from
outside blares from inside
can’t stand the bright side
of the moon
anymore
reflecting sun
as it does
my face masquerade is shaded
too esoteric so dark and hark
the part I’m missing
plays:

I need love, I need love, but love,
love doesn’t work how I imagined
cold crunch grip chest
tight iceberg tip impale beneath the surface
infuse with icequake fear
hail to brainstem travel up
shiver from frigid residues of
emotional stripped mines
so when other lines quiver
“deliver, deliver love” I
t
r
i
p
mine and grip mine, my belief
my preponderance of pondering
wandering to me because glare and
blare out the outside as I will,
the will refuses to ignore you
when you bore through to the core “you”
the floor you hit is rock-bottom
the chore you permit
and the ore you admit is locked down and
coal
smolders
for you
but for me its cold moldering
stifles me, but brightens me
and outer light frightens me so
if you drop a neon piano down a mine shaft
and ask “Why do you sound so angry?”
when I answer in rhymes
forgive the crime
I
don’t get me

or you

wrong
I dissected my song
with the tools
of a mineshaft

I’m left with tripped wires


d i s c o . n n e c . t . e d

hazardous ground
terrain reform with just
precision pickaxes
waxes paralytic
but my sheen-singing,
denoted, dim-lit collection
lets me grin
beside outside symphony
holding broken strings with a scientific smile
even so

Can you see that I still know what music is?



I've found in my years here on Earth that a spine is requisite if one is to stand for anything, especially on one's own two feet.

From my philosophy class: "I don't know if you've accurately captured the subjectivity of trolls..."[/size:b70742df3a][/color:b70742df3a]

[img:b70742df3a]http://www.tabbydesign.com/crew-all.png[/img:b70742df3a]
^ ask me about this place~



 
 
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