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Here I am, making things up.
These words, I missed my chance to say before.
Travel back in time:
i didn't know I had that chance--now I do.
Glad to be here, in creation.
Making my presence felt, wonderful.
the only thing is, I wish I'd come by sooner.
you see, I've been doing this for years.
Yea, my dad knows the owner,
(They're both pretty cool)
But I never met him,
anyways, that's how I knew.
Respect. Much respect to you Mr. Koyen,
IF that's your real name (haha).
We're all under an assumed name,
'Save As', the tale of a man who knew his name, by Michael Amity.
I am the Philosophy King. I've known that for 11 years.
Sometimes you say something just to say it, not knowing if it'll stick.
But after 11 years, I know; the choice is now yours, whether you'll believe it.
In time, I may have a new name (in fact, that time has come, but maybe again, who knows?); the thrill--for me, at least--is not knowing.
Indeed, I love the balance of it though: knowing my name, who I am, in a world so uncertain.
Dependence is weakness but weakness is strength.
I've gotten through vices (now I've got good advices!),
Came out ahead I'm lucky to say.
Before saying there's a reason why, ask if its a good reason.
29 years got me here. I'd rather die than live in a world of fear.
Love conquers all. These are my notes:
bob--"My love, she's like some raven, at my window with a broken wing."
leonard--"Your beauty on my bruise like iodine."
sam--"Why won't somebody come and ease my troublin' mind?"
johnny--"'How high's the water, mama?'' 3 feet high and rising'."
No refunds in LIBOR town
Keep concerns 3 doors down.
Put my nose on before it goes wrong
I got more substance than Higgs Boson.
A known felon, circling the world like Magellan
Live it up till I'm dwelling in a casket
Smelling like a basket
Strength is weakness, loving pull
Dylan songbook, Sammy the Bull
When all is said all is lost,
Save some for the rest of us.
Greatness awaits us
We each have a part to play
Some delay, some start today
And we all follow a target map
Spending focus, honing craft
Into wisdom's frozen trap.
How serious to get? A question of mind, time and what's right.
One has conquered my mind,
One wants my time
And one might be just right.
It feels like I have two pieces of bread and a piece of meat; my choices and my result.
I will plant a garden. Hope has to be in the middle of that sandwich.
When I take a bite, finally, I will know what it tastes like.
My taste buds seek answers, my heart likes to talk; she's open to all possibilities.
What kind of meat is it? A good question to have.
Thanks for the feeling you gave me.
What came next was a dream.
The touch lingers
As a crutch, no, more
I wasn't always as confident
But I did have a feeling
Long ago, a big moment would occur
The dream would realize and it has
I am a traveler working with limits everyday
It seems there are variables
To get through. Things we need?
Look at me:
With questions, but answers
Are worse, when knowing
If there's no hope, is saddest.
If its contrived as poor, weak,
How can I live?
I want to live, and dream.
The conclusion made us think. Why bother?
The rationale is indeed curious, rather obvious gibberish. It's ours, though. That's nice to say. Thinking makes it so--how double-edged.
Get the point. Rather, move on. Start a website. Feel less, write more; that'll impress her!
All a farce. In reality, I've gotta make it, playing the game. Sigh.
Rid my headache. Let's review.
My heart was decimated through ill-fated attempts at normalcy. Now I'm strong, but alone as I wanted, craved.
Back to the point--how I feel--terrible. Because...alone, she's not aware.
Sincerely, just my fucking ego.
We're both writers. I've written you a love letter. In my head, at least.
Have you written me one? Yes or no? Better as Not yet. Always the editor...
Lets be honest now. The letter is for you, but I can't show you. Once I can, it'll be for you. Until then, its for me.
As a writer, how can I send it to you with preconditions?
As a lover, how can I not?
I am in a movement beyond thought. Cataloging, I call it--saving up. Subtle truth is better than none. Rambo was a character. Here I come.
Catching up and then...letting go. Speak without saying.
Let me understand... How is Witchcraft. When is central, under your nose! How and When aren't anything then. They move in and out in a beat. Timing me into memory. Repeating the end before I can sense it, again, until I remember. Reminded that Where wasn't, just like When. And How was until What interrupted. What wanted its own spot in front of Who as the wild one winner.
It makes sense, and pales in comparison. The Why came out of nowhere, and left in a heartbeat, no trace or elevation.
Watching someone die, with two things going on:
One is saying goodbye--that ones never wrong;
And the other, in a sigh, is more than just so long.
They go with the night, for you the day goes on.
In that moment, what transcends? Two becoming one.
The second that they're not there, a new world has begun.
And in it, life is new; well, you reach that higher rung
With elements crossing back, as if their heartbeats clung.
No longer child-like, timid or with shrugs
Understanding disappears, wondering, it's love
Alone to contemplate as you join the club.
Growing up's about how tough life is.
Believe me, I know what it's like.
You might be happy with someone else.
The person who I care about is
Fine without my caring, and so
It feels like it should. Life is hard.
I didn't want to deny myself, now
I'm not so sure. The drama feels
Both wrong and right. All I want
Is the outcome, and that's wrong--unrealistic.
What other way? I'm sorrily confused
And now it feels ok to ask
For the first time, I'm confident that
I don't know, but I do care.
I'm in love.
While voracity is falling by the waist-side, under a guise of insecurity fueled static, lost is the task of deciding whether to strike the balance of give and take. Equality seems the penultimate challenge. In this regard, the system is designed to favor the ones who choose whether to get hooked on nobility, self-created and administered, or reap the benefits of the real world. The purpose is to fit in to a surface-declining, capitalist thinking showcase of a version of respect. This archaic view of equality resembles a cookie-cutter approach to change--its a process, naturally.
Trust may've never been a barometer of success, but at least once, before jadedness crept, it led to deep conversations, multiple levels of progress, and rewards of healthy relationships. More than ever, it's a fool's errand--play or be played--meeting randoms, cracking jokes and having fun is the post-modern ethos.
At center is a choice of what to make of it. With a premise that the concept of trust is at its most bleak, what sort of time should we seek?
While unsure, lets opt to focus on cognitive positions--subtextual attentions paid. Fake relations will implode someday.
Lets train ourselves to avoid altogether and dismiss the ones who aren't right for us without it dragging on or, to put it simply, getting personal. Till then, wasting time is a jibber-jabber cut above solace. Hence, the pursuit of pleasure is on the rise. As this may pertain to a declining moralistic, the freedom culture has assembled many entrants seeking a care-free venture. That's the culture, and even the place we are in--our starting point. Lets move on!Find a better piece to make our tradition. We can't do it with blame that objectifies each other.
Walking through the 'hood I hear, "Radio Rahim deserved to get choked out by the cops." Not something I thought I'd ever hear, especially not from a black guy. I think, "maybe the love in Harlem is really just a veiled hate for Brooklyn."
The guy repeated himself; it wasn't some offhand remark, I mean, he thought it through. There was a case to be made, sure, but I never fathomed it possible. No one I ever knew could have said this. Wow. It's as if my world was never meant to see the interesting parts of the other side.
This is what every moronic, stereotype-fueled comment sounds like to my ears:
"Don't you hate gay people? With their long hair and poor hygiene."
"I'm not sure where you're getting that from."
"You know, gays! Always mooching off everybody, really uninformed about society."
"That doesn't sound like them."
"Yea, it does--they're always complaining about nonsense, and are never on time."
"I'm pretty sure you're talking about young people."
"No! Young people are cool. My pool guy's young. He's a hard worker, very friendly."
"You mean Hector?"
"I'm not sure how to say this but, he's gay."
My dad and I would tell my mom we were going to the library, but we actually went to the trading card shop. I don't know which was better, buying packs of Topps and Upper Deck, or lying to her. It was so much fun, to always say, "We're going to the 'library'"(--emphasizing the air-quotes tone on 'library') and then we'd wink at each other. Sometimes secrets are good, when they don't harm anyone. I still have some of the cards, but they don't compare to these classic stories. Doing bad is how so many stories get made.
Jay-Z isn't the only black poet to make 100 million dollars. There are a select few, but he did it with the most integrity. And how he did it was simple mathematical structures. Complex was the time put into each choice--a vanguard, as any songwriter will tell you. The genius (in the lines, syllables) makes something from nothing; a power, as troubling--(ferociously free) to use by all--as trembling, patterns humble we who respect craft and success the most. And space between gaps places weight on the measure. In the end, we have no one else to hark.
Words and deeds meet at an active source; neither is stronger than the other, now that each have evolved to be in our central making.
i don't prefer words anymore--I'm not afraid of actions (as much)--but my words are telling me I can keep going, forget what isn't made of this moment and bring the reverse into existence.
I hate to say it, but I'll say it anyway: I don't hate things as much these days, certainly not "said" things.
Maybe I love better because of my past, what made me care. Looking forward, I'm happy I cared.
Process begins with finding a thought and ends with losing it. I spew out some words, close to a goal, bearing hope its acceptance will come as prophecy, yet it's not a pleasure without fine-tuning. Ultimately, each critic holds excitement for being entertained, and forces make a body of work (at least) the sum of its parts. Attitudes need adjusting, we work at shaping a world: selling work, giving food--just because; I must be a buyer first--a requirement of experience. Magnificent judgement comes next, not by heaven, but my quest is to dream on once I've left.
Struggle, insecure sameness I can't express. I've seen darkness, you're still in; screamed what you can't hear--I say, only with condescension--it's coming. Trust? We want maximum gain / minimal loss; comfortably see who we are, how it matters; facts? They don't compare to power--blame designed by delegations; morality? Our former shapes the latter.
Quenched desires have tiers to consider: Upper -- lower; divide -- conquer!--cajole, caress, craft, curry mistakes; minutes later: nothing.
Each second patterns presence as people run from their essence hitting us with plain, simple give and take, no meaning; Zazen--say no more--Tao. I'm different.
A writer must describe the invisible. We specialize in awkward stares.
The best job one can have is to not work. The second best job is to arrive once its done and detail what's wrong. The writer does both and ends up burdened with contentment; as full and sure of himself as he is overworked and under-recognized.
If you haven't been stood up on a date you weren't invited to, bludgeoned with the tip of a spear and asked if you'll have another, scarred with permanent ink and then handed back your instrument, you wouldn't understand a writer's life.
I don't have much, but a few simple things.
What I gained just now, that wasn't available then.
The best is what we get (not yet forgotten, but soon).
Soon all our triumphs become timeouts as we cross over to become timeless and endeared for those in that moment;
Lost upon wistful makers of fortune.
Know your place, next to others with discomfort, or alone, or happy.
It makes no difference but for the distinctions we value.
To the heart of salvaged beasts, declare freedom, costly yet beautiful.
In the cage of life, time makes up for experience--imagine that.
My mom smoked crack at least once, she told me. It doesn't bother me that she messed her life up. It bothers me that some guy probably gave it to her trying to get in her pants. The slimeball culture bothers me, because I want to belong in this world. She was a single mother with an infant son, but to Joe Blow she was a pawn. That's fucked up.
If you knew my story, you'd understand, I'd never use a woman, but I'm just one man. If society tells her she's a slut, she'll believe them and not me.
America has a separation of power between the spheres of international/interstate and the local regions within the States. Each side has its own way of doing things, yet they coexist because they want to, and that ensures liberty.
Some could argue that disappeared with this or that change--they'd be known as quitters in my book. The changes that occur don't alter what we stand for, just as what we stand for on a daily basis may change, but that can't affect what we have at our core: a sacred belief in one's ability to make their own way.
Most people enjoy the finer things in life, but not what they have to do to get them. I'm just the opposite; well, sorta.
I am not an ends-driven person, though I try to enjoy everything I do. I know loving the work is the key to both surviving and thriving. Anyone can do either, or, but doing both is my goal.
If you are looking to accomplish more with less, you probably are like me. Like me, you may've started with almost nothing and learned to use your wits. I always want more, but desire doesn't rule me.
So what are you about?
Most converse on the muttering of doubt
Like they ain't complicit
Curse in front of kids, surprised when they listen
Shocked as they copy
Details match, the penmanship is sloppy--
What if the world conspired?
Things they do got their babysitter fired
Still don't change
Status quo goes home on the range
Maybe I'm wrong
I'll entertain, this is my song
What's your response?
Do you comply with what everybody wants?
Do you aim to please?
Sit, roll over, stay on your knees--
Just a little ditty
Written by a man who occupies a city
I like her hair...
"Ladies, next time you get your hair done, I want you to get it done real nice. Wavy and shit. Go all out."
"Make it so that I can stick my dick in there and get lost for a couple minutes.
Make it so that if I jerked off in it, it would take you an hour to wash that shit out. Not no 10 minutes.
Make it so that if a guy pulls your hair, he better be fucking you good or else you'll be pissed because he messed your hair up for no reason."
Only someone with confidence has the potential for stability within chaos. Since existing isn't up for debate, we must navigate through changes, and an outlook can determine success or failure.
Love isn't really love unless it changes you forever.
If she wants him to love her (and she does) then she has to know he will survive through the changes. She won't cause every change--that's the job of 'Mother Nature'--but she can't fear his journey, because she has her own; and both will need each other.
Either side will lose if they keep depending on the past.
Looking within, true love will guide us. We don't yearn for adherences--the protective quality--we choose to give away our care for others if we can. The best change comes when we love our fellows for their sake, not ours. It doesn't matter what is done for us, after all. We want to see more done by us, don't we? Things that matter are sprouted from within. When the scorecards are counted, we want to see less connection with shiny objects and more shared moments with people we admire. Our heroes come not from images, but through their impressions.
Scenario: I'm with a girl having sex, she cums in 2 minutes. She gets up to leave And I'm still thinking, "hey can we do some more?"
Am I bad guy or no?
If I, with or without realizing it, talk in a way that is putting pressure, is it the same as using force?
I hate guilt trips, no one has a right to sex, I know.
I don't want sex if she's not into it, but in that heat I'm not thinking at full capacity.
Could anybody answer this with exactitude?
Maybe I just need to relieve myself.
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