Seriously. Who am I kidding?
The pen is my sword. Strike vigilantly, as my vocabulary sways across the page in the beauty of movement.
My finger grip tight, dancing professionally to portray; to enable the reader to visualise.
My gift to you is my word. Welcome to literature. Welcome to ScatteredWisdom.
The movement of my sword will forever open your mind; open your eyes. Do not only read, but witness awe. Witness my ability.
As I engage you into my world. This is the element of ink.
Should know. Who I am.
By now. Still…
It’s no surprise.
Excluding what I can only describe…
As the original.
A perfect Triangle.
Corner to Corner.
Every ego too themselves.
Yet at times, unity shimmers in the centre.
The sweet strings of the violin…
Keeping me stable.
As I submerge further.
Into my mind.
The triangle now obliterated.
I stand before, in awe…
A Coup‘d’état? No…
3 men, fully-‘bearded’
A Suit, Skater and Imam.
“We are you.”
The words echo, although the space seems unclosed.
I sit. Brainstorm.
Dig my face in my palms.
The words force themselves out like vomit.
I look up; too find the men have gone.
Nothing left, except a picture.
As I grab it, it turns too dust.
But I feel. Happy?
“Pain teaches many things…
Including, the value of a smile.”
Frustrated. Fractured knuckles.
Bring down the Tower of pain,
Hosted by the Emperor of data.
Burdened, is he who knows something.
Burdened… Burden… Burn.
Burnt is he;
As the flames of Knowledge, cremate sanity.
Strait-jacket. Cliché reformatory.
For what is not known is that…
The mindset is THE cell.
Trapped within his conscience.
A prison of records, words, thoughts… feelings?
But what values have feelings,
When data is established?
What value has opinion,
When fact makes its entrée?
All that is left is bias…
Bias of the man, who is condescending.
Bias of the Empowered. Emperor.
“The will of a single man, could change the course of a nation.”
Exhibit A: Adolf Hitler.
Exhibit B: Sun Tzu…
Exhibit C: The boy who felt pain.
For humans rarely perceive beyond the projector screen.
The will of a single man,
Child who was lonely…
As the question ponders:
“What is justified pain?”
Hack the Earth with the sword of Depression.
Caucasian. Petit, with brown eyes.
Abysmal setting, mould runs through the cracked-concrete walls.
Dark street. Fire lamps. (near)Clear sky. Crescent moon.
As I hold my stance, staring. Petit woman…
Her shadow hair.
Distinctive, in the darkest of scenes. Contrary?
No, no. Nothing is wrong, nothing is incorrect.
Curiosity at first sight.
Increased heart-rate. Sweat glands operate. Face shining.
“What must I do?” What must I do?
I must do nothing;
For beauty is distorted by information.
Outlook of The OUTkast.
Comprehension isn’t for all.
Answer me, as I entreat…
In the world of Gods, one must rebel,
For that is human nature, no?
As I cry upon the laps of the Heavens,
Does the Shayṭān not have the right to retribution?
Optimism, yes, but I’m only human.
And humans’ greatest trait is to wrong-do.
As I struggle to find the words,
Misinterpreting this whole FUcking poem for a blog.
Longing for death… or murder.
But one can only fire if he wishes to be fired upon.
Murderer. wanting to be murdered.
My ability of perspective is frowned upon.
Now, I’m labelled a sinner.
Empathy upon the ridiculed is sin.
For what is sin?
Or let me rephrase…
Who are you to referee sin?
PITIful creatures intoxicated on authority.
Now, I am labelled Real.
As I must’ve been previously branded Fake.
Replicated human minds. Conformity’s definition.
Iblis sought attention.
The world pays no attention.
…As I silently,
Penetrate the Earth with my data.