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Hello Darkness My Old Friends
#Philosophistication
Super Sanity?!!!
Villains carry many forms.
Villains arche-typing with brute force.
He tried to write and the pen sprung,
the pun not intended struck someone's
mind, the prose was a rose in a garden
of poetic plants, the poem too long
to be a sonnet was read by a bunch,
the creation of ego be-gun, the trigger
slung his mind to be set amongst
set lights, readers became mice
searching for cheesy writes, his skull
grew large, he could not see through
the sea of his volatile silence, thoughts
imprisoned in brackets, imagination
a stance for literary sanitation,
substance became a sad depressing
part of their lines, none knew how to
dance with curves of their cursive,
so he became the villain; the chief
governing the new regime of blissful
depth, time had come for him to be felt,
to be shelved, to be paged, to be heard,
and also to be dead...
Then he split to bring back the
gist; Pennyfool and Margites;
old man deceased, new men released.
Dead poet; no society!
Agent of verbal chaos; Pennyfool.
"Theory of a sane man, read a page,
he's still a sage in a cage of his head,
intrinsic slave; we masters hold the
staff over the extrinsic world, split
the masses, this ocean de-parts heart
through the disguise of being art,
throw darts as the words carry means,
what it all means? The podium is a trap;
I still illustrate depictions of ancient
deities; I'm literally phishing id-entities,
open the tin of nightmares; the lid
stuck and egos can't breathe, shut jar.
The last young man was a viking; he's
a king and fragility is stumbling; drop
the tin and summon a modern day Osiris,
expanding iris, genealogy of Isis,
pupil stuttering; vision is buffering;
time has come for wars and vandalizing;
pop the earth with a toothpick,
dark lord,...
Super Sanity?!!!
Villains carry many forms.
Villains arche-typing with brute force.
He tried to write and the pen sprung,
the pun not intended struck someone's
mind, the prose was a rose in a garden
of poetic plants, the poem too long
to be a sonnet was read by a bunch,
the creation of ego be-gun, the trigger
slung his mind to be set amongst
set lights, readers became mice
searching for cheesy writes, his skull
grew large, he could not see through
the sea of his volatile silence, thoughts
imprisoned in brackets, imagination
a stance for literary sanitation,
substance became a sad depressing
part of their lines, none knew how to
dance with curves of their cursive,
so he became the villain; the chief
governing the new regime of blissful
depth, time had come for him to be felt,
to be shelved, to be paged, to be heard,
and also to be dead...
Then he split to bring back the
gist; Pennyfool and Margites;
old man deceased, new men released.
Dead poet; no society!
Agent of verbal chaos; Pennyfool.
"Theory of a sane man, read a page,
he's still a sage in a cage of his head,
intrinsic slave; we masters hold the
staff over the extrinsic world, split
the masses, this ocean de-parts heart
through the disguise of being art,
throw darts as the words carry means,
what it all means? The podium is a trap;
I still illustrate depictions of ancient
deities; I'm literally phishing id-entities,
open the tin of nightmares; the lid
stuck and egos can't breathe, shut jar.
The last young man was a viking; he's
a king and fragility is stumbling; drop
the tin and summon a modern day Osiris,
expanding iris, genealogy of Isis,
pupil stuttering; vision is buffering;
time has come for wars and vandalizing;
pop the earth with a toothpick,
dark lord,...
