Slow down, this pitiful tear, That has made, its merry mark, on my cheek, I find it to be, too earnest, And thwarting, from the sight, of someone, so vivid. You have been beautiful, to this day, A woman, as the moon, finally sees darkness. The darkness, of a life Turning, to death.
Go wishfully, to the naked forest, And grow roses, in the bleakest parts, of that place. Make me a blanket, of twigs, and deepest roots, Full of berries, alike your eyes, like gems.
I am full of remorse, to the previous day, I am a man, with many sides, to him. And only a singular face, to ever kiss.
Show this tear, to perhaps a priest. Let him shower it, with the contents From God’s realm.
Fail me once more, why don’t you? Curl upon me, with your body of silk. You have eyes Like the deepest, of green. You have longing Like the disease, that streams From the nudity, of me; Like my mind, that never seems, to heal.
How do I, describe the one, Who has, lifted me, from deprivation? How do I, describe the woman, So beautiful, as to, unearth woes, from a, past life?
To make me see, all that, has come to be, And the failures, from faiths, I transgressed, too horridly, All mathematics, and all stars, Point to an answer, I’ve long been, desiring to witness. All of beauty’s image, stands before me, In the caressing, of angel wings, and a lucid smile.
There, I see a face, engraved with stones, of purple, and red, And a naked form, of ivory – There are, to each leg, the comparison To pillars, of ice, or pillars, of marble. I adore her shape, in her making, that trembles, Under the warmth, of a dashing sun!
“Face me,” as I say it, to face me, You are now loved, once more, By a man, who made a woman, as a statue, An admiration, for a life, so lonely. I am in awe, as I’ve remained, in awe. Movement? Is there movement, in a lifeless shape?
There must, be ebony, A stain, on my fractured heart. It is there, and I’ve felt it. It has covered, and here, I know it, Before the denial, I’ve kept.
I could see the necessity in wishing to know, The love I’ve come to commit to my own atrocity. My beauty, you have exquisiteness in every breath, And a mark upon your shoulder has been to count, Each subtle sigh under morning light, In before I come to share my place near your death.
Love at my left hand, and my hope in the right. I am a man of many angles, And many divides to count for too many. There has been desertion staining our hearts, And now I find myself wanting. “For what?” I ask, and then I comprehend it:
I am in awe for the woman who hasn’t rested, Has been afield in the work of too many men, Too many droplets of salt, have played a part on your stress, Come to me, dear woman, when you’ll feel yourself Wanting to fall, and create an imprint Of yourself in the soil.
A devil had made this world, And there is indeed purpose among it. But, to find myself more wanting, For the angelic tears that make a journey, Across your withered cheeks, Makes me find more meaning.
A woman’s heart is to me, the cherished stone. I walk from where I sat, to her face, and bury only myself in her tears. They come out from dark eyes as sweet to taste, for she is happy!
Happiness! So alien was the word, whenever I’d writhe in a torment back in my home. I’d spent the summer nights, in the heat, while a heart beat for the torment of an addiction. A substance, or so it was named, and I blew kisses in the direction of that pain, because I knew it was enhanced by love.
She bares her beauty resplendently. This woman of mine bares herself with a heart held outward, and I make myself famous in her touch. I feel the entire world look upon us, with so much envy. They can never know love. No; not them; certainly not the world I know to be dipped in selfishness and a desire for the self.
Our hands embrace; indeed, we have embraced. We have kissed, and we have embraced. We will love; yes, we will love. We will kiss, again, and we will find the moon to be radiant and the sun to be hot.
Above her brow is a strand of hair that I blow away from sight. I see an eyebrow that I, as well, offer a kiss. And I kiss it, and kiss it evenly in distance from her twinkling eye. So much love is in my heart, and my pain has been extinguished from its dancing and ephemeral flame. It was my life, that pain, and I have waved it a farewell.
My beauty, let us dance under stars and under the awing faces. We are the world made perfect. We are the moment made without distance. We are the ones for the other. We are beloved, and musical, and enchanted.
“Why would we ever be comfortable around the politician who never lies? To be comforted, is to be lied to, and this is factual. A comfort is a lie. A comfort is a stagnation. For even the heart moves, evermore rapidly while in love. And it stops, when we are dead.
What do I mean by this? I mean, that honesty comes out of the man, who leads, when he can stoop low to see, once more, his origin. When the King had fought in the battlefield alongside his unrelenting soldiers, his cries were louder than those who died by the sword, who were their opponents. What I mean, is that honesty comes out of a man when he allows fear to be his own strength, as very much it is the weakness of his people. As very much it becomes the strength of his people, it soon becomes the weakness of himself. That is, the leader should be compassionate.
And comfort will weaken, and will tell a soldier to no longer fight. Comfort will tell a man to kneel. A woman will let a man fall to his knees before her light. Her face is now the face which a man has implored himself to stand, and then to fight, again, for her safety.
I say it once more than an honest man is a man of no shadows, but light. He is a man who people will despise, and many others will look over with admiration. That is because in a world of lies and comfort, and nothing more else to name, honesty burns. Honesty burns a hole in the shadows, and comes to people’s hearts to make them wrathful with fury.
And those under the guise of comfort will no longer see their shadows, but the light they are forced to notice. And this light, is what they attempt to reject, only to find themselves swimming in it, unable to let loose its hold.”
“The emotion is alike the beast. Too wild to be free at the ultimate state, and too large to be truly caged. We, as humans, cage animals, for we cage emotions. We, as humans, believe ourselves to be beyond emotions. We, as humans, both cage ourselves, and the emotions we will enclose in our heart. The emotion is alike the beast. When free, it will roam, and we then have allowed it to escape us. We are without humanity through this action. The emotion should, in fact, be kept on a leash. With only enough freedom for movement, and enough control of the master to pull it backwards. The leash, however, is never unbreakable. For the emotion may be the beast with wings, or the beast with strong legs. Allow it to be truly free, and it will escape into total darkness. The master will search, being forced to search a void.”
“A person will seek out their enemy to hear the fullness of honesty. For this reason, a troubled person will never tell secrets to their friends. For this reason, a troubled person will be more likely to go to people they’ve never spoken to before, to hear honesty.
A troubled person will never tell their friends and family secrets, for fear of their friends and family becoming bitter enemies. And on the opposite end, a friend will never tell their own friend a bit of honesty, for fear of themselves turning from a friend to an enemy.
For this reason, a person will cling to a therapist.
For this reason, and for the same reason a person clings to a therapist and to unknowns, is for the same reason that a person of today clings to identity. And why does a person cling to identity, most of all? It’s for the reason that we live in world where we cannot at all love our enemies.
We find comfort in lies. Inevitably, a human finds more comfort in what was said by a friend, during the previous day, than what will be said by an enemy, as the truth, in one heated moment. That is, an argument with an enemy will spill more truth through the air, than a soft conversation with a friend. This is dwelling in lies. That is, to be around friendship constantly is to dwell in lies.
And for an additional reason why a person will cling to their own identity, is the same reason why a person of today will continually cling to things they already comprehend. That is, they will cling to themselves, to their friends, and to everyone else they already understand. No two enemies understand one another if they aren’t willing to take the effort; and if they were to argue, they may indeed understand more. If one plans to defeat their enemy, they will discover weaknesses. If one plans to befriend their enemy, they will also discover weaknesses, but never choose to exploit them. Rather, they will trust in every word that was said.
Today’s love of ‘identification’ has been born out of the purified definition of ‘division’. We form groups. We form families. We form tribes. And then, we begin to war with one another, until each family creates mutinies among the group, and Charles Darwin becomes the Prophet to reveal the truth of ‘Every man fighting for himself’.”
The same people who are against vaccines are also in support of the legalization of all manner of illegal drugs and narcotics. They believe both to fall into the same category of “freedom”, and yet, I’ll call it as falling into the category of “slavery”.
The Buddhists have a focus on two areas to the human: mind and body.
Either one can be enslaved. Those Africans of the past who were enslaved, were enslaved for their physical capabilities, and any sign of intelligence they showed was a sign that they’d be able to rebel, form a strategy for escape, and they were executed.
Why is it stated in the title that mental illness is not hereditary? It is for the reason that “mental illness” is what I believe to rise out of memory.
As children, these small ones do not understand the world, and through their curiosity, they ask many questions to parental figures. A mother, or a father, or anyone who can provide a response, that the child trusts.
Mental illness must be the thing that has come from everything unknown in a child’s mind, buried down in the subconscious; and as a child asks these questions, everything still left as not understood is made as a nightmare during a child’s sleep. Mental illness rises, as most should know, during the times of a person’s adolescent years. This is the stage of a human both hitting puberty (development of the body), and the development of their own mind, which causes the adolescent (objectively speaking) to attain their own independence. It is why I also believe that it was Nature’s decision, in the creation of our own minds, that upon the escape from absolute question, into the time when a human can create their own answers, during the stages of life when both mind and body develops, that objective independence is attained.
This is to say that independence is only ever gained when problems are solved.
By saying that mental illness is not hereditary, I am saying that only through memory of everything still misunderstood, comes to the adolescent as still blatant question. That is to say that as children, they were never given answers. As adolescents, they will begin to beg for these answers. And again, as adults, they are still looking for answers.
This is to say that science’s greatest achievement, or failure, is to provide society with no answers, no resolutions, and only an endless path of question for the individual life.
It is because every memory to a person has unearthed itself from the subconscious. A child at the age of four did not understand much, and so what was misunderstood came to the child as a nightmare, during sleep. Now, when the child is an adolescent, and forced, by Nature, to develop some form of answer, every question from childhood buried in that subconscious, is coming out as “nightmares” in the waking world. That is, these so-called “hallucinations” from Schizophrenics, are merely “misunderstood memories” that resonated from childhood and are still misunderstood by the adolescent.
And then, as the adolescent turns into the age of the adult (the age of 25 when the brain stops developing), they run into the same unanswered questions that are still begging for answers. That is, the superpowers, the politicians, and the hospitals are only “rushing to develop more powerful medicines” for the sake of their own desperation; because, as the powers are desperate in search for a conclusion, so are the weak desperate for an answer. And this is why I say that only through something we cannot ever understand, we will find all the answers possible to find.
Mental illness cannot be hereditary because such descriptions written above affect everyone. To say that it is hereditary is to only say that each child has a memory. You may as well be stating to each child that they have flesh and hair, or teeth and nails. You may as well be stating the same things to an adolescent or an adult. And then we wonder why everyone’s so conflicted with their identity.
Pleasure me with the face of roses, And feed me your graces, Long, was your tresses, made of ebony. Stone-like, is your heart, and made of the same. Find me next to nectar, Let us leave the sacred altar, And play nude in the mud. Children are ignorant, while question is their infinity.
My beauty with stains of descent, Upon soil, where your ragged flesh lies loose, And a heart burdened in heaviness. I toss more soil to silence whatever flame Is still left to light the Earth, And all its failing dwellers.
Name yourself upon the shape of my arm, Twist yourself about the beautiful objects that stone me, Make me warm, and make me wild, Find me as a man of nothingness.
I feel fame as easily as pleasure, Death and denial go as well As the evening to strife upon life, When we said to ourselves, “We are meant to be, Pleasured by pain, so evenly.”
We are the workers of a plentiful tomorrow, The roses you bring are the tears you’ve shed. As I am in love with the dead, And I will play with the sand, To share our story with those well-read, To finally feel my heart enclosed in this hand.
Beneath
the fire of the sun and in the warmth of their skin, two lovers unite in the
holler and jeer of a morning’s session of passion. There is, imagined in this
scene, a pair that dances on their own toes above the fruit that releases the
nectar that is the sin of lust. One speaks of beauty, the other speaks of
despair. Yet, the comfort that surrounds the aura to the dream is the enemy to
love. One dream and one blaze cover a pair so embedded in simplicity.
Bastian
acts as the man with an entire field below him in its radiance from the
overhead sunlight, while she gleams with as much luster as the sun, to give
Bastian the radiance that all know in holiness. Bastian is God to an angel
covered in her own cotton garments.
He
is as merciful as the holiest of saints, though tears into her the punishment
that fits the description of any atrocious fiend. His face is shown with the
emanations of regret. More than once, she questions why he is weeping, but not
once does he offer an answer. He gleams in the aroma of love-making; it is
softness to the angel’s defeat. A few drops from his face mingle in with the
drops of his body, but his face is soaked in sadness. His temples are soaked in
passion. His mind is drowned in sorrow.
In
God’s realm, he has become the doer of good to an angel that envelops herself
in simplicity. Her shoulders show loveliness through their roundness and their
connection to a splendid stem of a neck! Her face is captured by the kisses
given to her from the man above, and what a face it is! Bastian and his lips
trace the skin of her breast, draining its plumpness. He allows himself to
linger on her scent.
The
scent of a beast lures; that is the Hunter which Bastian has become. It takes
God and a Hunter to create a child in the womb of an angel. He takes in her
softness in every inescapable delight. Every one of her tremors results in the
creation of an empire devoted to wings and gold.
