Mut3DFaith

One man a poor beggar, grovels and pleads, the other a tax collector, lives based upon greed. Both are cowering at their knees at the gatekeeper of two adjacent worlds. And one would think the pauper greater of a man than thee for living such a life as he, and much less the banker for the dim existence he leads. But not the gatekeeper of the clouds, the sweeper of all those noble enough to be allowed in such a utopia of Chosen Ones. But who is the more exalted of the two, is either at fault for the life they've been through? Each having sinned to the extent of their nativity only at the hands of others before them. And who is this gatekeeper

The creator rests, and all of the power that was passed on to his world is unleashed, allowing every member of his community to feel his wrath upon the spirit between them. Anxiety to angst, riot to utter chaos. In this disorder all are lost, even those who warrant it not. Those who dare, mutter words of hatred against the one who brought them to ability to do so. Those who do not are nonetheless wrought to the same fate, all are brought to justice. By means of flooding of the sinners' land emits a new endeavor for a people who must start over.

Among these forsaken hallways, I see Incandescent alleys of destruction Every voice, another outlet of glee Every voice, another obstruction Among ones I notice, all are silent Heeding mere observation to others For no sound is worthy for the gallants These are my foster sisters, my brothers Among the sound kin, none reside in thought For they have arisen their own colony But those who are virtuous venture in naught Those who are virtuous march in harmony Forever on each realm of life shall clash Forever every realm remains abash

Allowing it to be known, predestiny Of that ashen soul in its departure Hoping in its personal scrutiny Divine souls will savor and endure But how can particular lives be saved, When humanity resides in action, When celestiality, taught in craving, Is taught in the grains of separate factions? Mere knowledge of a companion's farewell, Simple deviation of time's process, Should be ample beyond a word's dispel; Should be opportune for final finesse If it ought be time for your soul to take Please allot, in your wake,  terminal embrace

An eternal equinox springs unto itself It is fatal but ever condescending Swinging on instinct in its mechanical hell Its branches stretch scarred muscles to full extent, In complete exhibition of denied grace Apportioning a perfect figure, in ascent The body heals itself, in time's erasure But still awaits Beauty's heartfelt acquaintance, Remains alone with an untouchable face Its dormancy is solitary in redemption All is finite in achievement of perfection

Surrounded by the occasional poll, Truth shrouds itself in a successing lead Abdicating for none but its own console It is undefined, but undenied indeed Answers are sold in turn for acceptance The two have now become synonomous And if not questioned at pristine glance, Nothing is applicable to dicuss But there are also those that are of sight; They search for the ideal in retrogress Even in the apex hour of plight, They search for naught but the ideal to address It is to be occupation to sleuth, Only purposeful in knowledge of truth

If i am to be of definition, Acknowledge it only through confession Please let not me owe expectations For it is not sure of its own assessment Requesting that i am not immediate, And assuming also none too distant, It is consistent in internal debate Evermore the question is persistent Not to declare a definite portrayal Nor condemn in formal resignation, But would either cultivate a failure? Each is a personal, total damnation In truth's finale, entirety will be told But at the present i will not be sold

Desecrate! Alleviate! Time will take Every soul's fate Though there is darkness Be not of spite Indeed you are blessed In power of light Behold! Foretold! Time will unfold Heaven fully enrolled In your redemption The honest forgive But lost temptation Will cease you to live Mutiny! Blasphemy! Fulfill all duty In your god's beauty Bow, serve Your prince and your king Go, preserve What you're told is worth loving

In passing radiance there is fire Lighting ambition of new achievement Though it is want, i suppose it is dire But for now some impulse i will rent I must admit that in positivity, There is a semblance of hesitation And each fragment is equally gritty Advocating age in revelation Presence in mind is strongly capable But vivacity is absent outside So if succession departs unstably, At minimum it knows it had been tried Rationale for disclosure is unknown But nonetheless i plan to be atoned

In times it seems there is no absolution Death can only reason to be opportune Especially in terms of retribution When all difficulty has been made strewn By cessation all left lying is nobility But still cannot be distinguished from stupidity Misunderstanding is forever immense And seems to only grasp those who take offense At that crisp, flame-sprung hostility Which those who inflict can take with dignity Perhaps it is valid to dub at fault hopelessness, Except for the absence for one to assess; But with such vindication, why suppress? Owners of definitive thoughts sell freely And in a business prosperity is guaranteed Howeve

I will be the last one to write this book first and bravest willing or the only one with pinkish liver intact, lungs whole and breathing on beat, heart and intestines aligned, stomach prepped and iron -- house of a dozen or so yards and pounds of sleeping, messy wishes. A pile of emotive meat. Words collect sounds to create meaning, yet "dog" is not a dog, so what is a word? Echoes shatter common sounds like rain on glass and buckling tin rooftop of a matchbox butcher block of car, echoes like static laughter, wailing and slamming its way around. Rain juices over thickly burdened wipers. I am near the temple of Isis now: I am

You saint           Around the meaning With the martyred step                 Of burnt bridges. Write what you want me to read.

Back in the timeless days of Morrison & Hendrix, you either wailed on a guitar or went insane with some drum sticks- music was from the soul, it was alive, it was real; there was just a certain appeal that made the listener feel. Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, Pink Floyd, The Who- all poets in their own right, telling the ways of the times through linguistic innovation and genre-bending emotion, not to mention musical styles that always kept thoughts in motion. It was a glorious time to be a part of a movement, but nothing gold can stay- ever since those days, music in the mainstream has regressed in quality- anyone who deviates from

Your skin is electric Like wool—with mounting static energy Each time my hands pass tenderly, Lovingly, charging you for release, Caressing the places that make your body sing, Just like I want to do, like I was hoping to, Since the time when we began. I want to let my hands be like the Hebrews, Let them wander in the desert of your dissatisfaction Until finally, the gates come wide, And I make your lips subtly part With desire's deep-laid fissure, So I can see the petal-pink within And taste the motherland's sweet milk and honey. I want to make a sin with you, The ken of which has been condemned Since that moment when Eve an

Rudolf the red-nosed wino snorted a bit too much coke; it always left that poor wino feeling depressed, and rather broke. Rudolph the red-nosed wino had a very shiny nose; and if you stood too close to him he would take off all his clothes. All of the other winos, used to wait til he'd pass out, then they'd piss upon poor Rudolph, until he'd wake up and shout. Then one foggy christmas eve, rudolph froze to death in an alley; end of story- what? Did you think I'd waste my breath detailing the life of a wino? You must be out of your gourd; the paper this poem will be printed upon will be more than he could ever afford. Yes,

1: Introduction          Angst. People admire and despise, protest and support, immerse in and shun, indifferently yawn, while holding very firm opinions as their respective buttons are pressed when they hear the word "angst." As a starting point of Poeticks, we have decided to take up the differing opinions from inside DeviantArt, to lay out those arguments for all of you to read. Please keep in mind that these are "your" thoughts, as they are, and you are completely free to agree or disagree. Our objective is not to push forth an ultimate commandment, but rather to present to you the many (and often times conflicting) opinions we have rec