Evanescence gifted one,
channeled hurricane,
bliss lies drying in the coalescence,
sensing ever changeling serene,
spirited back into the world,
emptied into a sackcloth,
forgotten, being little,
dancing with the fairies,
caught beneath jungle leaves,
yelping for the world to know how happy you’ve become.
Introspective causation,
limited retrospection,
ending dilapidation,
timeless memories flowing in the void,
relive those glorious days wondering how you knew,
somehow the sun doesn’t change me but I change none the same.
Every path that I’ve faced has been ten times the one you’ve travelled,
every desire you hold strong is a thin string on my heart,
every dream I experience is your negativity gluing you to the soil,
if my vibrations could speak they would cast you aside,
motionlessly hold you back,
don’t turn back,
no destiny for you here,
but your lies sneak their ways in,
we all watch you believing your own sin,
love starts to win,
eager to turn your life around,
we’re all waiting for you to take the leap,
step inside our empathy for a day,
battling to save you from yourself,
oh, come and steadfast,
I’ve transcended everyone’s past,
then at last,
they all come back,
telling me my own stories,
and I sit and let them enjoy their moment,
painstakingly real and unforgiving,
as each strained breath and clasped hands,
you are becoming.
Soaring notes crashing across planes,
weaving around a thin line,
time and its place,
beating, fleeting, always meeting,
god only knows what sounds will bring,
lucid thoughts and nightmarish days,
washed away in transcendental daze.
Into the lands of Avalon,
bordering the edge of Capulon,
decidedly strung upon,
come on sun,
not much fun,
to be wrung from that dry lantern,
alienic aurora being,
angelic disciple of light,
comes from flight,
descended upon the mountainous red rocks,
colliding with space rocks,
cosmic dude.
Black and closed,
sacked and dosed,
racked and morose,
drained and close,
supine and disposed,
desperately healing without a healer,
no stick sword to tackle the blackness,
an empty picture frame stuck in a box,
locked in that closet for all you forgot,
despair the night turns to day,
yet I am so far away,
black.
caritate te ipsum, love thyself,
scio te ipsum, know thyself,
one must tranverse that great river before coming to the true side,
the dark and hard path that lay in front,
a mere illusion,
grapple with the demons and angels,
wrestle with your god,
fly around wondering what the heck is going on,
if the light is real or powder,
mere dust settled in an expanse,
carpe diem, seize the day,
so I heard you say,
but unfortunately life won’t always be this way,
that’s what I say,
so look up to the skies with teardrops in your eyes,
battles of fire raging across the sunet,
bring your cross and dagger,
and meet me at the equinox,
the journey to our infinite love has not begun,
trying hard to passion existence,
bleeding through the wire to find another reason,
hitting that height to just admire,
a word you could say,
quam pulchra, how lovely,
shoot across the rooftops at night,
skate into a secluded desert bar,
pull up a chair, prepare,
for the night is a scar,
not too far for you to find,
seeking your ways out of your mind,
that bridge to the other side,
how fragile I find.
Reaping the seeds you have sewn,
changing the beat you have toned,
feeling the heat you keep attuned,
cataclysmic,
paralytic,
jiving across sorrowful waters,
each droplet lashing at your spirit,
held by a thin string,
reach for the stars,
expect an easy way back,
drying off in that desert,
cataclysmic.
There is an old story about a man who came to see the Buddha because he had heard that the Buddha was a great teacher. Like all of us, he had some problems in his life, and he thought the Buddha might be able to help him straighten them out. He told the Buddha that he was a farmer.
“I like farming,” he said, “but sometimes it doesn’t rain enough, and my crops fail. Last year we nearly starved. And sometimes it rains too much, so my yields aren’t what I’d like them to be.”
The Buddha patiently listened to the man.
“I’m married, too,” said the man. “She’s a good wife… I love her, in fact. But sometimes she nags me too much. And sometimes I get tired of her.”
The Buddha listened quietly.
“I have kids,” said the man. “Good kids, too… but sometimes they don’t show me enough respect. And sometimes…”
The man went on like this, laying out all his difficulties and worries. Finally he wound down and waited for the Buddha to say the words that would put everything right for him.
Instead, the Buddha said, “I can’t help you.”
“What do you mean?” said the man, astonished.
“Everybody’s got problems,” said the Buddha. “In fact, we’ve all got eighty-three problems, each one of us. Eighty-three problems, and there’s nothing you can do about it. If you work really hard on one of them, maybe you can fix it – but if you do, another one will pop right into its place. For example, you’re going to lose your loved ones eventually. And you’re going to die some day. Now there’s a problem, and there’s nothing you, or I, or anyone else can do about it.”
The man became furious. “I thought you were a great teacher!” he shouted. “I thought you could help me! What good is your teaching, then?”
The Buddha said, “Well, maybe it will help you with the eighty-fourth problem.”
“The eighty-fourth problem?” said the man. “What’s the eighty-fourth problem?”
Said the Buddha, “You want to not have any problems.”
Poem titled: Patience
Likened to a thorn in a bush,
trimmed and fell,
beaten and rained,
the rest of the birds,
the growth of the earth,
the start of your patience.
A labyrinth, a maze,
she slept against the tree,
sucked into a portal to another dimension,
her mind was tripping,
there is convolution,
confusion and denial,
she fights her inner demons,
a brave tale,
we should all follow.
psychedelicwizard 