Sunday, December 22, 2013

It's True!

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I am pilloried for passions as provoked by unbrave cack-wits. Still, you can count on me to fight a poet's fight. See, my rhythms are discomfiting for some, perhaps contentious. Still, the song it sings aspires to truth and light.
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See, what's there is only there because I sing it in a song. What I would express, expressed... made righteous, clean, and strong. My points have different aspect, and these points that should be made (?) ... in SONG they have a quality crossing flowers with grenades!
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Now how much should I have to "pay," to say my words my way? And what's the price exacted for expression?  What becomes my "crime" that's just too "heinous" to allow! What justifies my purging and suppression?
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It's true I have a conscience that I wear upon my sleeve. It's true I'd split the heavens; it's true I'd "soar" and "cleave." It's true I find "religion's" thrust a cop-out and a drag; it's true there's only guile been implied by ANY flag!
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Yes, it's true I seek autonomy and the freedom it suggests, but a freedom from the likes of such as "you." Self-important men and "artless," blessed by errant gods conniving... They insure themselves their future. We're their tools.
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Their clever orchestrations are abstruse, not plainly seen. They decide intolerance, so it's them defines "obscene." They would write your script and they would tell you what to think; you're just for their "utility." Too, behind? They nod and wink.
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It's true that I would, just as soon, NOT live my life their way. There's just no honor in it, it would seem. Based on lie's invention to manipulate control, it's a "carny-pitch" divergence from my dream.
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I dream of satisfaction efficacious and complete. I dream of the forthcoming, and the loss of all conceit. I dream we fill the emptiness with the wealth of what we know, and that SECRETS wrongly hidden are exposed to flash and glow!
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It's true what I surmise, my friend, that WE ARE NOT ALONE, and thinking thoughts like these gets hard to bear. So, I rise up every morning with some coffee for my spark, and I fix the starry skies, if there, and stare.
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What would you expect from me? I've eyes, and I can see; too, well read and educated, I perceive that I'm not free. With ears to match and listening, I've found a cosmic road, and on that trek I'm finding out:
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I won't be cowed or bowed.
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...Distrust of rhyming verse is not my problem, do you see? A song's a "weave" of rhythm and some verse. It seems to me that problem rests with others who would dictate how I tell you what I think, and that's perverse.
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Everyone can take the time... to see a different way. Everyone should have their choice to double, put, or stay... Everyone's enhanced anew with choices they could make... to, then, fertilize progression and improve a person's "state."
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Yet, I must fill your mold been pressed down, HARD, upon my soul; too, it doesn't matter what "perceptions" are? A universe, before me, stands ignored in their indifference which would smother up the outburst of a star!
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Too, I'm supposed to pack my brain in cakes of "social ice" and validate hypocrisy to go along... be nice? If yes? Be disappointed. I'd be true, at least, to self—to have respect for others, one must first respect oneself!
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I am a poet-warrior... my blades drip dragon's blood; I'm not apologetic; I'm obverse. All that I would wish for is the simple honest insight that I'm chanting here, to you, to lift my curse.
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That curse? It is *unknowing* that we labor with, you see? The curse is the erosion of the stuff that makes us free. The curse is persecution of divergence we all need... to aerate potential, be not bored—improve the breed!
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Now I'm expected dutifully to make a place for you, except you as the "standard"—how it's done... But where are all your colors and your levels or your richness? Where is beauty? Where is learning? Where's the fun?
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Your thinking's all peripheral, and bereft of any depth. Your focus is too narrow, and it seems you're scared to death. Too, to make me pay your sordid freight for all those fears denied, proclaims your lack of bravery, Sir, for which you're well despised.

alienview@roadrunner.com
www.AlienView.net

You know who you are.





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