Friday, September 9, 2011
Asleep
Still asleep and half awake, waiting for the bus to pass, getting out my bus pass, busting my ass for the little pay, little me I pray, little world I say, too small for my mind to even play, but I say, woe to the mind that is blind to the concoction of co-conspirators that consign our souls to the corporations, hiding behind super ego lie, frightened eyes tracing the footsteps of the blind, I came, saw and about to find, what the real meaning is to live a lie, to be following a dream made out of smoke, I toke and I blow, the mirrors I break, I watch the smoke and mirrors fade away, like the unicorn, a dream never meant to be born, but most are living it, more like surviving, never questioning, always giving in, like a prostitute, I guess we have to create our own avenue, where we put our values, my message to them, the future is malleable, the seed that is planted is the metaphysical slowly birthing the physical, so dream beautiful!
Hands that touch the moon
Subliminal, critical, little missile, missing intuitively, passing engineering instinctively, while bigotry still lazily sits on the stoop of the head of the critical, minimal, subliminal, little mafia running the media, placing minimal subliminal bombs behind the curtains, certainly you see, but not really, because the tv has you a little bit hypnotized, devil in disguise, more like devil in front of your eyes, drinking rye while the moon sails in the sky, painting
pictures that blaze the mirrors, light an idea and set fire to an empire, the umpire plants dirty little subliminal seeds, while the catcher doesn't see, still asleep, broken bibles with dried ink stains, listen closely to the dead under the dirt and hear stories never heard, more like a bird whispering to the dog or the cat, mysteries painted only in the minds trapped in a casket with dirt and soil and a pen, ideas shatter into pieces and turn into a hen then turn into an egg, the watcher observes the moon, a mere substitute to the sun, the day repeats itself, same car, same road, makes me wonder if the settings change, does the car move or the road?
pictures that blaze the mirrors, light an idea and set fire to an empire, the umpire plants dirty little subliminal seeds, while the catcher doesn't see, still asleep, broken bibles with dried ink stains, listen closely to the dead under the dirt and hear stories never heard, more like a bird whispering to the dog or the cat, mysteries painted only in the minds trapped in a casket with dirt and soil and a pen, ideas shatter into pieces and turn into a hen then turn into an egg, the watcher observes the moon, a mere substitute to the sun, the day repeats itself, same car, same road, makes me wonder if the settings change, does the car move or the road?