Self-Made God

Open your eyes so that you may see

the reality that is so close at your feet

their cults that starve for influence

and their souls.. fallen to deceive.

Hear them, for they spoke of truth and lies

for their tongues are fogs that smother unto our eyes,

for their words are like kneeling frogs; waiting for their prey

and their speeches like floods of water and gale.

smell them, as their stenchful breath clouded your mind

like rotten corpses; thrown into the marsh at night.

their scent are familiar, very familiar

that your mind vomited before you do.

touch them and they shall reach

begging for everything that they preach

for at first you'll be nursed..

but later you'll spit with curse

tell them a story that lifts your soul,

they would listen, like a child holding a plow..

but the story would not step at it's end..

for they would left; with hypocrisy and annoyance they felt..

beware of them, avoid them at any means

for they are the God's of themselves

devouring anything that they reach

with frenzy and greed at it's peak.

only chaos; havoc they could only bring

so, open your eyes and sharpen your senses..

that you may not be included..

at their list of sullen catalyst..

Clairvoyant Opus

I have cried for so many beautiful and arrogant times..

my heart speaks for lamented and drowned awakenings.

and my mind has been imprisoned to a trance,


a very deceitful trance..

As the one plays the flute of sorrow..

I was the very own patron of him..

I've thought what was good for my soul was love...

but it was an absurd.. yet theoretical truth..



One who was there plays his harp of solace...

I was on my blindfolded nights in that instance

there, there was the sound..

the eerie tremolo that encourages metanoia.



And hers, the voice of light..

Illuminating, blinding like the onset of heavens..



but what was it's importance?

If I've been on a sullen path?

If I've been deaf to voices afar?

and been seized with debilitating seizures of reality..



I have dreamed of utopia..

for it is only a dream, a fiction..

like a stone thrown into stillwater,

like a tender spot on a steel..



I've given all my miseries, smiles and clairvoyance..

to an old book of unstable chances..