Creation

The light has a shadow. Its source doesn't.
The material world is modeled by the ego. Without the ego, there is nothing and everything in the same time.

Grain of Truth

No, I'm not insane
I just grow thoughts in my back garden
It's harder for me to not be a martyr
Cuz I'm trying to be the starter of a new chain
Of thoughts, where there's no need to barter
Sharing means expanding, our frame gets bigger
Uncountable by the figures
My aims are a sleeping eight
Join my mind state if you want to thrive
Cuz I strive for a growth rate exceeding the Sun's weight
I want light in its purest form, but not induced by chloroform
I don't want my soul to turn to foam, I want to roam God's Kingdom
I want to be an apple in the garden of Eden, and tempt the demons to their demise as time rewinds.

My First Thought

"No."

The Poet's Maze

In a distant gaze lies a crazy maze
Unphased by habits, inactive planets
It's simply art, it has no start
No end apart from the joy of hearts
To please the Gods, no battles fought
A distant thought will never rot.
It lies in sanity, and not in vanity
Suffers relentlessly for the sake of humanity
It has no foes, no means, no goals
Just stars and glows, no eyes, no nose
It hides from us, our vicious lust
Our views are blind, binded by time
This empty maze lies outside of space
The poet's freedom is to envision
Without seeing or believing
Just knowing and being
Living in Music's realm
Creating a playground for self.

Thoughts of a Madman

The fire hanging on the wall
Is gripping for its life
I highlighted the thoughts which bother me not.
Very few, they lie in the backroom, their cellmate is a psychotic, delusional truth-whisperer. Schizophrenic is not enough said. He hides in the shadow of a hanging branch. The tree of the soul puts emphasis on this branch. I don't know why, but that's the truth. It's an inside job. My job is to seek the truth and ask why. But who am I asking? They say "Be careful with your thoughts because you are speaking with the universe". But who IS the universe? Is it a being inhabited by my thoughts? Does it even acknowledge my material form? We live in infinite complexity and we limit ourselves as much as we can. The paradox of consciousness is infinite in its stubbornness to comprehend the true nature of truth and love.
Illusion's hair has a nice scent, magically pulling you towards unconsciousness. The clock ticks until you can't hear it anymore.

Freedom

Empty your mind...
Surrender to your soul
Look up to the sky
And let it mould you.

Ideals

I deal with ideals that most people don't feel are real
Why kill and be killed when you can live peacefully and build
On one another instead of tearing each other apart
Coexisting in harmony is an art
Not doing it means a lack of a subpart
In which case we would need a restart.

The Coffin That Hung From the Ceiling

The cold night vibrates between raindrops

The wind breathes the fire til the pain stops

A shadow flickers on the humid walls

Lightning strikes scare the cats and dogs.

The ego walks home soaked in question marks

“Where’s my justice?” he screams, as the thunder sparks

A wild idea in his monstrous heart

“We shall fight til death tears us apart!”

And so he geared up and went to war

Trapped by the greed of thoughts, he stored

And hoarded them til he could hold no more

Til he collapsed, white flag in his bag

And the flowers grew around him

While he grew cold because he couldn't stimulate the thought within

(to be continued)

Blanked Thoughts

I feel exposure from the heat of others' wounds
A broken watch on the blood-seeping earth ticks
Staring me in the eye, while a dying child kicks
And screams his last words to me, while I look at my feet

I want to run, but I'm entangled in my ruler's guilt
I cower and shove my face in mud, and I see the stars
A shimmering light of hope in a place where bullet proof cars
Shoot at anyone in sight with all their self-righteousness and might.

Death's warm hands welcome me to a coffee
To wake up from life, where I've wandered round blindly
My existence was as pathetic as the fearful guilt of a child
And my last thought was blank.

Illusion

No walls, but you're still locked in these halls
Where everyone that grows wings falls, and ghosts
Haunt you every day, your roles are false
Even when your goals are foes
And even though everything goes, of course
They'll still lead you off-course, long-nosed
Poor puppets whose minds are froze like those who've got no goals
Push some buttons that get you clothes, phones and gold
They're the same buttons that foretold the end of the world through wars and gore
Fables to leave an old man sore
And furthermore, what if your view of the world is torn
From the truth while they hand you roles so you could do their chores?