Razasoul
09-26-2007, 01:20 AM
I’m tough $h!t,
I’m everything I always wanted to be,
Because no I haven’t wasted my time,
Of course all that time thinking was me coming to be who I wanted to be.
Cus obviously I wanted to be the head strong guy that only knows himself.
I never had to let anyone in because the lone wolf is cool, and doesn’t sustain a classification such as lonely or sad.
I never need help,
Never while I was crazy, alone, scared, down, in a cycle of negativity, a bum.
Cus when you’re down in your own dark pits you’re always in control. This control is yours and of course I could always reach up if I wanted. I could stop, I could quit.. If I wanted too.
I’ve been places, and though my body is weak, and my mind is uncontrolled, I’ve traveled far.
The depths I’ve reached on the couch have far surpassed anything I experienced while standing, talking perhaps. And though I can’t find myself sometimes, I know I’m in there somewhere, doing marvelous things, for me.. but for the world.. Obviously for the world. I’ve taken nothing and returned everything. I’ve taken peoples time and effort and returned enlightenment to the human race. I’ve given them beauty and dynamic when they were lost in a chaotic paradise. Because I’m obviously not floating around now, I’m less floating around now than when I was a child, amazed by the concept of a free spatial body in a galaxy of amazing intrigue.
And the days pass upon a pale face,
Not washed with joys of the sun,
But hardened by the depths of my mind.
And who I’ve become is not weak, but strong,
Strange and scary, because I’m different.
But I can attack at an angle no one has guarded, the human angle of relation.
I am human and I relate to you, but I am not human and I supersede, and fall away from humanity in my big headed misconceptions of reality that are fully mine and fully a narrative of awesome faith, effort, and fancy. And all those factors were inherent to me, and so this story is not my own but the story of a bigger picture in which my parents, the world, God as my tribe, and my pleasures, and my existence substantiate itself. I have come to this point here and passed it, and I don’t look back, but to pat myself on my back, and grow a boner for my self indulgences, poetry, as message of my soul for example. And though I type too fast, and don’t know what I’m going to say next, it is always me. And maybe these little ones and zeros on my computer are more of me than I can ever attain. For their expression is ever present, real, providing, and makeing marks on reality that can’t be fundamentally changed. But then they mean nothing without the wander’s perspective. The viewpoint of chance and change that views from the outside, the only understander in existence, that from the outside perspective. And every tool on the inside is a mechanism, or a path, or a dynamic even one of chaos if that is its role deemed by reality.
And laughable are the books I write to myself to tell me things like, I love you, don’t give up, keep fighting, find something, look for beauty, listen harder, be real, exist. And these messages, gifts from God, are the tactical strategies of my life. If ever there was a culmination of my life, these strategies would be them, that or my progeny. Like a single ship sent out to war, for some broader purpose, perhaps as in war without a true victory possible. And what but death would deny me my pleasures, stupidity, the dumbness that is giving up, losing faith and that which I identify myself with. If I lose what I identify myself with than I find no purpose in pursuing anything, barely even day-to-day, until I have a routine to identify myself with.. Then that is who I am. How sad.. And what if Gandhi had a routine, one that got stuff done. As I suspect the real world operates, with a lack of effort to understand the workings of progress, and the subliminal production of what the conscious can only barely put into mapping.
And who am I, lost, and why should I change, and who should I be, and how the unending pursuit of answers only makes one thing perfectly clear to me, questions. And if I could understand perfectly everything about one moment in time. I would need nothing else, for I would become the universe itself, and its guide would be my God, me, my creator, his creator, our creators, for which I thank him profusely.
I’m everything I always wanted to be,
Because no I haven’t wasted my time,
Of course all that time thinking was me coming to be who I wanted to be.
Cus obviously I wanted to be the head strong guy that only knows himself.
I never had to let anyone in because the lone wolf is cool, and doesn’t sustain a classification such as lonely or sad.
I never need help,
Never while I was crazy, alone, scared, down, in a cycle of negativity, a bum.
Cus when you’re down in your own dark pits you’re always in control. This control is yours and of course I could always reach up if I wanted. I could stop, I could quit.. If I wanted too.
I’ve been places, and though my body is weak, and my mind is uncontrolled, I’ve traveled far.
The depths I’ve reached on the couch have far surpassed anything I experienced while standing, talking perhaps. And though I can’t find myself sometimes, I know I’m in there somewhere, doing marvelous things, for me.. but for the world.. Obviously for the world. I’ve taken nothing and returned everything. I’ve taken peoples time and effort and returned enlightenment to the human race. I’ve given them beauty and dynamic when they were lost in a chaotic paradise. Because I’m obviously not floating around now, I’m less floating around now than when I was a child, amazed by the concept of a free spatial body in a galaxy of amazing intrigue.
And the days pass upon a pale face,
Not washed with joys of the sun,
But hardened by the depths of my mind.
And who I’ve become is not weak, but strong,
Strange and scary, because I’m different.
But I can attack at an angle no one has guarded, the human angle of relation.
I am human and I relate to you, but I am not human and I supersede, and fall away from humanity in my big headed misconceptions of reality that are fully mine and fully a narrative of awesome faith, effort, and fancy. And all those factors were inherent to me, and so this story is not my own but the story of a bigger picture in which my parents, the world, God as my tribe, and my pleasures, and my existence substantiate itself. I have come to this point here and passed it, and I don’t look back, but to pat myself on my back, and grow a boner for my self indulgences, poetry, as message of my soul for example. And though I type too fast, and don’t know what I’m going to say next, it is always me. And maybe these little ones and zeros on my computer are more of me than I can ever attain. For their expression is ever present, real, providing, and makeing marks on reality that can’t be fundamentally changed. But then they mean nothing without the wander’s perspective. The viewpoint of chance and change that views from the outside, the only understander in existence, that from the outside perspective. And every tool on the inside is a mechanism, or a path, or a dynamic even one of chaos if that is its role deemed by reality.
And laughable are the books I write to myself to tell me things like, I love you, don’t give up, keep fighting, find something, look for beauty, listen harder, be real, exist. And these messages, gifts from God, are the tactical strategies of my life. If ever there was a culmination of my life, these strategies would be them, that or my progeny. Like a single ship sent out to war, for some broader purpose, perhaps as in war without a true victory possible. And what but death would deny me my pleasures, stupidity, the dumbness that is giving up, losing faith and that which I identify myself with. If I lose what I identify myself with than I find no purpose in pursuing anything, barely even day-to-day, until I have a routine to identify myself with.. Then that is who I am. How sad.. And what if Gandhi had a routine, one that got stuff done. As I suspect the real world operates, with a lack of effort to understand the workings of progress, and the subliminal production of what the conscious can only barely put into mapping.
And who am I, lost, and why should I change, and who should I be, and how the unending pursuit of answers only makes one thing perfectly clear to me, questions. And if I could understand perfectly everything about one moment in time. I would need nothing else, for I would become the universe itself, and its guide would be my God, me, my creator, his creator, our creators, for which I thank him profusely.