Instinct of Lies

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Phoenix Poetry
this will be my last poem -- i will be working on a piece for the future. enjoy the worn out poems that are on here, you may see better ones in time-- yourself.

Submitted: February 19, 2017

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Submitted: February 19, 2017



Stiff brother's call of no meaning, 
Instinctive rebeliations—
Pointed slabs of praised stone 
And a melting longing forgotten 
By a mother— nothing is reasonable
In this petri-dish of faculity.
I will follow him.

I will never be free.
We teens, you see, have unlocked the secret
Neither in pride or in the constructs of failure
But in the beauty of nothing and the state of being
That resides in impulse. 
Singes release erotic noises as they fall into your armour
(that is enough) Still, read. Look! Bleak is the empire
And the Sun is reason to frivolous confusion
—By which no one compromises to listen to eachother. 
I'm coming, I'm coming. I'm coming! 

Define black and white, 
Still I write, 
Compulsions rely on God
And retractions sleep onto the beauty of nothing
And thought.
You French bastard, 
You re-born bastard, 
I spoke to you in the air… of brittle crystals——————
What is it like to die? 
"We have always been dead
And for eternity—
Wake from your drunkenness, there is a purpose
To fulfill! "

I will fall to the drunken recital of Rimbaud
(Anew to start! Deja Vu!) 
Realisations are to be birthed into a vucuum
As I rely on nothing, there is no black space.

Stars are live in their imperial intensity—
Please leave, there is nothing to read.
I will give you a molten obscurity from eternity—
Still he bellows.

I have an infestication to be swift towards such verse: 
crustations are infectious in their love of kisses
-Texts of dirty, unreliable gin-
I can mean anything.

Honestly, this is futile and i am achromic
to the directors that are an illusion.
I am punctual only for the need of self-proof.

Please, there's a violent petal beneath the hidden garden
within the hidden school; stand by me as the bird burns and cries out painfully; 
luck, look! there's a sad thorn and nettle.
My olympian, you have stung yourself.

Shall we dance into nonsense? 
I sneeze onto your breasts, bold in goosebumps.
I steady my haste, 
I cry onto your perfect, desired breasts
"WHY! WHY DO WE WEEP! "- you cry in an uproar of soberness, a defying incubus
Such beliefs are shown to childhood
And we are nothing.
; Let me make love and show you men are but you
And this is a convulated state of hatred and love
Waited to be discovered by many that read.
Brother…sister…please wake. 


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