Monday, 31 August 2009
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
You should hold that shift key for just a bit longer as I slit your skin. Slowly I peel it away, each layer slowly slides away then pops off as the pressure get stronger and stronger. Blood starts to seep down your neck and I can see your veins and arteries, wind pipe and other nasty bits. I slowly poke my dirty, soppy, fingers into the gaping wound in your neck and I play with the nerves located on your spinal column. I tweak two or three and paralyze you from the neck down. Then I put on my robe and wizard hat.
Friday, 14 August 2009
Making myself unstoppable
"The human race may be comprised of intelligent individuals
but collectively we're blundering over a cliff with our eyes wide open."
-James Hedley, Oxford
I can see it happening in everything. Things are changing - the metamorphosis is occuring - I am deep withing my coccoon and the chemicals are burning, moving and bending my soul. I am losing my control to gain the highest sort of self-control known to human existence. To gain everything one must lose all. And thus it is happening. But it's not easy, no sir, ho ho. I could try and make it funny; bearable perhaps. But I won't - because that would defeat the purpose of the whole transition. It would all be in vain if I didn't take it seriously. And so, I sit here, understanding and enjoying the pain. Just as I enjoy the pain my retainers give my teeth when I put them in my mouth - the pain symbolises change, progress, it is Right.
This is the type of situation that I can't explain to anybody. It makes sense only to myself and it only means Something to Me. Life is deep. And so is this. We have the most control when we are at our weakest states - it's not that we find any sort of significant manifestation of earth-changing power- but it is that: we understand most fully just the extent of who we are. And in doing so, when we come back from the brink of insanity, madness and self-incarceration, we are able to acclimitise to situations perfectly because we understand the machinations of ourselves. Our brain understands our brain.
but collectively we're blundering over a cliff with our eyes wide open."
-James Hedley, Oxford
I can see it happening in everything. Things are changing - the metamorphosis is occuring - I am deep withing my coccoon and the chemicals are burning, moving and bending my soul. I am losing my control to gain the highest sort of self-control known to human existence. To gain everything one must lose all. And thus it is happening. But it's not easy, no sir, ho ho. I could try and make it funny; bearable perhaps. But I won't - because that would defeat the purpose of the whole transition. It would all be in vain if I didn't take it seriously. And so, I sit here, understanding and enjoying the pain. Just as I enjoy the pain my retainers give my teeth when I put them in my mouth - the pain symbolises change, progress, it is Right.
This is the type of situation that I can't explain to anybody. It makes sense only to myself and it only means Something to Me. Life is deep. And so is this. We have the most control when we are at our weakest states - it's not that we find any sort of significant manifestation of earth-changing power- but it is that: we understand most fully just the extent of who we are. And in doing so, when we come back from the brink of insanity, madness and self-incarceration, we are able to acclimitise to situations perfectly because we understand the machinations of ourselves. Our brain understands our brain.
Monday, 10 August 2009
Why does death appeal to me? What does this reveal in me?
I will sleep in my jacket in contrast I'm calm to this racket couldn't live without my mobile phone, cig packet, passing out... passion.
Drink window cleaner.
Rule number one of sleeping: Look comfortable.
In the dark shed I become the terror. In the dark I face my fear. I am not alone. And if I focus on my fear it will come to me with force and the flavour of a rhapsodical nightmare. But if I understand the fear, it will greet me happily like a rebellious teenager greets their parents who take them back into the household, with a strong and gnarled grasp.
Hunter S is my muse. Between he and I we have nothing to lose. Life itself is a clever ruse. But, ho ho, gotta laugh at the blues. Even Jesus died young. So just chill the fuck out you are so highly strung.
Walking on the moon
Fight against the tide
Boy loves Emma watson. He gets to go to her birthday party to meet her. She doesn't notice. She is too caught up in her fame. Boy returns home determined to get on with his life. Becomes famous through chance. When he reaches stardom she has dropped off the radar. Now she wants to know him but he doesn't care about her. He is too caught up in the fame.
Sweat bored it's way through the pores
Non-plussed, double tucked and kinda fucked. Wouldn't walk for the sake of flying. Wouldn't crawl to save myself from dying. Gotta give to get and get given. Gotta talk to be able to listen.
Linguistics. Incorporate the pyramids. Historical amnesia. It is scary to think of how much knowledge we have lost.
Now I think about, what sound I make, when I breathe in and out.
Red mist red shit. Mist strangles the headset necks twist closed mind and closed fist. Chemically de-brained why strain no pain head explodes chest gets wet. Life destroyed with a single bullet.
Listen long to my lucid lamentations.
Scientists creating animals with out pain receptors. And making humans this way for organ harvesting. A wayward chicken is found by a failed scientist who dropped out of school because of a drug addiction. Cocaine and amphetamines. as colonel krumkiy they don't have to pay for things to dull the pain. no pain, no happiness.
colonel krumkiy is a woman with only one child. the child is sick and needs an organ or two. Colonel K went to uni with Adrian. Very smart. Difficult uni to get into. Adrian fell in love with her at uni. She thought he was a hopeless drop out. He took drugs and wrote poetry. Now he must show her what she is doing is wrong. Her husband died a few years ago from liver failure. She doesn't want to lose her son - the only tangible link to sanity. In the end Adrian befriends her son and finds out he thinks that it's wrong as well but she won't listen. Adrian and the son convince her to stop - one life is not equal to thousands. Just before the son dies adrian and Col. K fall in love. As they tell him this, he dies. The son leaves behind a poem. Book finishes as a new sun rises. It is not known that the colonel is a woman until late in the book
The idea came to me as a i bit into a chicken wing from nandos as paul and i drove home.
It was all a sham. Pain enveloped me.
I like to talk in circles rather then outside of them because inside a circle my ideas echo and reverberate around; my questions are answered in the cacophony of sound.
The irony of dancing on a table wearing a disguise.
baby boomer material.
Turn the music up. I can hear my conscience.
Don't look so glum. I was just kidding. I wouldn't subject you to such highly challenging yet stimulating intellectual material on the forefront of universal knowledge with respect to historical literature. Your young minds are far too weak to handle such intense academic critique.
Anecdotes, he/she says, are the clever orator's equivalent to the stick a jockey uses to make their horse run faster.
Anecdotes: witty remarks or fillers of wasted space? A speculation about anecdotes in post-modern rhetoric.
I am delivering a speech on the distinctness of grammar in 16th century English hermetic literature.
Good Evening... formal stuff then for the students, read out names... pat, chris, jeremy, jodi... etc.
So gentlemen, be robust in life. Be intelligent. Be caring and carefree. Enjoy life. Enjoy learning. Enjoy being yourself.
An anecdote I shall conclude with is taken from the 2007 graduation speech delivered by the most gracious Madonna Spillane. Her words were... R.O.B.U.S.T
Thank you for entertaining me here today my brothers. Until we meet again, I bid you adieu.
Anecdotes my dear friends, old souls and searchers of the truth.
In my experience anecdotes have a wide range of use. Some are used to take up time or space in rhetoric or other forms of literature. Whilst at times they also can be used to separate the coffee mug and the table to prevent that awful stain from occurring. In the most peculiar circumstances the right anecdote can fold a square piece of paper in half eight consecutive times. No easy feat, trust me.
Anecdotes are the most beautiful things in language. They are the way the most pertinent, witty, beautiful and intelligent words that have ever had an audience are preserved.
He tells me that this speech came to him in depths of some dark night. His hand moved across the blank page, the cold sweat shimmering in the halogen light, he said. It took him 3 minutes to write the speech down word for word as you will soon hear it folks. But it took him five hours to re-write it in legible script. His hand was a tad shaky after seeing an angel, and all.
Therefore I am here today to present to you a speech written by a most brilliant gentleman who goes by the name RVRFNX
An annual anecdote will keep the analrapist at bay.
Potential pedo. Hates Lilly Allen. Well dressed. Likes a cocktail called the 'poet's piper'.
He lived in a town called reality and he moved away when he was 13.
He could punch the heart out of a grown man's chest.
Which knowledge burrows fear into your bones: the fact that I am a criminal or the fact that you are the only person who knows I am a criminal?
London is a phoenix
bronte langbroek
With every evil there is a corresponding good. Balance. It's the way of the world. And when we fuck with it, it fucks with us.
I'm going to give my first child the name 'opinion' so they will never be wrong.
Twisted cutlery. Pissed off?
Navel fluff
I like to say good night to passengers as I get off the train at 5am.
Like an old restrictive carcass shell I strip it off and relax.
Capture me in my most down and out poses.
Got people stomping around the dance floor looking like angry little ants.
Why does the bass sound like it is saying 'sex, sex, sex, sex' over and over again?
Not being famous sucks when you know you will be famous and all you want is a little servive, sex, booze or money.
The End Club - a group of writers who know the end has already come and don't give a fuck.
Imagine the fucked up dreams when asleep in a club.
I love it when I can feel the music
I'm not sleeping goddamit. I am just enjoying the music with my eyes closed and drool running down my chin. It's seductive, you fuck wit.
Parched. Can't swallow. The bass reverberates around my dry throat.
Transvestites in cages tricking everybody. It's all a sham. Fake. Not real. But people pay money for it. Fucking disgusting money.
A bundle of guts vibrating in a heated box, wet vaginas and cocks rubbing against the ferocious crotch.
Pretending to dance with the girls in the cages.
Music. The great communicator. Along with fear. Making everyone feel good. Even the girls in the cages look happy as they sell their souls.
Am I a freak? Do they know? Am I different? What does THIS mean?
Sweat mixing with tears. Really. Is this love a sear of people moving but not knowing. Love is blind. But not this blind.
Floating nowhere, foot scraping the wall for grip.
Who comes to a club to lie down?
Such as: I am mitsubishiying this waterboat.
Poet and student. In his spare time he writes exposes on dreams and creates new verbs from nouns.
For a sack of bones, some guts and organs. You really are a beautiful individual. On the insides and out.
I can be nervous but I want to push the boundaries.
Camera pointing. Segment. One thousand dollars.
And that's when I realised she was a pike.
Navel fluff.
Why the long pause
Waking up to people having sex. Horrible. It sounded like they were dying.
It was brilliant. It was beautiful. There was magic in the air that night.
Sex, philosophy, travelling, love and vodka. A tale of one boy's journey to manhood in a London Hostel.
Laura love story
What do I know? I'm a young impressionable student with a brain like a sieve.
Exploring the heart and soul of the boulevard of broken dreams.
Love the little things in life. A warm bed. A cup of milk. A bottle of vodka. Salt and pepper squid. A bottle of vodka.
Sleeping under the stars these days means sleeping under pictures of celebs.
You gotta bleed to know you're alive.
I will sleep in my jacket in contrast I'm calm to this racket couldn't live without my mobile phone, cig packet, passing out... passion.
Drink window cleaner.
Rule number one of sleeping: Look comfortable.
In the dark shed I become the terror. In the dark I face my fear. I am not alone. And if I focus on my fear it will come to me with force and the flavour of a rhapsodical nightmare. But if I understand the fear, it will greet me happily like a rebellious teenager greets their parents who take them back into the household, with a strong and gnarled grasp.
Hunter S is my muse. Between he and I we have nothing to lose. Life itself is a clever ruse. But, ho ho, gotta laugh at the blues. Even Jesus died young. So just chill the fuck out you are so highly strung.
Walking on the moon
Fight against the tide
Boy loves Emma watson. He gets to go to her birthday party to meet her. She doesn't notice. She is too caught up in her fame. Boy returns home determined to get on with his life. Becomes famous through chance. When he reaches stardom she has dropped off the radar. Now she wants to know him but he doesn't care about her. He is too caught up in the fame.
Sweat bored it's way through the pores
Non-plussed, double tucked and kinda fucked. Wouldn't walk for the sake of flying. Wouldn't crawl to save myself from dying. Gotta give to get and get given. Gotta talk to be able to listen.
Linguistics. Incorporate the pyramids. Historical amnesia. It is scary to think of how much knowledge we have lost.
Now I think about, what sound I make, when I breathe in and out.
Red mist red shit. Mist strangles the headset necks twist closed mind and closed fist. Chemically de-brained why strain no pain head explodes chest gets wet. Life destroyed with a single bullet.
Listen long to my lucid lamentations.
Scientists creating animals with out pain receptors. And making humans this way for organ harvesting. A wayward chicken is found by a failed scientist who dropped out of school because of a drug addiction. Cocaine and amphetamines. as colonel krumkiy they don't have to pay for things to dull the pain. no pain, no happiness.
colonel krumkiy is a woman with only one child. the child is sick and needs an organ or two. Colonel K went to uni with Adrian. Very smart. Difficult uni to get into. Adrian fell in love with her at uni. She thought he was a hopeless drop out. He took drugs and wrote poetry. Now he must show her what she is doing is wrong. Her husband died a few years ago from liver failure. She doesn't want to lose her son - the only tangible link to sanity. In the end Adrian befriends her son and finds out he thinks that it's wrong as well but she won't listen. Adrian and the son convince her to stop - one life is not equal to thousands. Just before the son dies adrian and Col. K fall in love. As they tell him this, he dies. The son leaves behind a poem. Book finishes as a new sun rises. It is not known that the colonel is a woman until late in the book
The idea came to me as a i bit into a chicken wing from nandos as paul and i drove home.
It was all a sham. Pain enveloped me.
I like to talk in circles rather then outside of them because inside a circle my ideas echo and reverberate around; my questions are answered in the cacophony of sound.
The irony of dancing on a table wearing a disguise.
baby boomer material.
Turn the music up. I can hear my conscience.
Don't look so glum. I was just kidding. I wouldn't subject you to such highly challenging yet stimulating intellectual material on the forefront of universal knowledge with respect to historical literature. Your young minds are far too weak to handle such intense academic critique.
Anecdotes, he/she says, are the clever orator's equivalent to the stick a jockey uses to make their horse run faster.
Anecdotes: witty remarks or fillers of wasted space? A speculation about anecdotes in post-modern rhetoric.
I am delivering a speech on the distinctness of grammar in 16th century English hermetic literature.
Good Evening... formal stuff then for the students, read out names... pat, chris, jeremy, jodi... etc.
So gentlemen, be robust in life. Be intelligent. Be caring and carefree. Enjoy life. Enjoy learning. Enjoy being yourself.
An anecdote I shall conclude with is taken from the 2007 graduation speech delivered by the most gracious Madonna Spillane. Her words were... R.O.B.U.S.T
Thank you for entertaining me here today my brothers. Until we meet again, I bid you adieu.
Anecdotes my dear friends, old souls and searchers of the truth.
In my experience anecdotes have a wide range of use. Some are used to take up time or space in rhetoric or other forms of literature. Whilst at times they also can be used to separate the coffee mug and the table to prevent that awful stain from occurring. In the most peculiar circumstances the right anecdote can fold a square piece of paper in half eight consecutive times. No easy feat, trust me.
Anecdotes are the most beautiful things in language. They are the way the most pertinent, witty, beautiful and intelligent words that have ever had an audience are preserved.
He tells me that this speech came to him in depths of some dark night. His hand moved across the blank page, the cold sweat shimmering in the halogen light, he said. It took him 3 minutes to write the speech down word for word as you will soon hear it folks. But it took him five hours to re-write it in legible script. His hand was a tad shaky after seeing an angel, and all.
Therefore I am here today to present to you a speech written by a most brilliant gentleman who goes by the name RVRFNX
An annual anecdote will keep the analrapist at bay.
Potential pedo. Hates Lilly Allen. Well dressed. Likes a cocktail called the 'poet's piper'.
He lived in a town called reality and he moved away when he was 13.
He could punch the heart out of a grown man's chest.
Which knowledge burrows fear into your bones: the fact that I am a criminal or the fact that you are the only person who knows I am a criminal?
London is a phoenix
bronte langbroek
With every evil there is a corresponding good. Balance. It's the way of the world. And when we fuck with it, it fucks with us.
I'm going to give my first child the name 'opinion' so they will never be wrong.
Twisted cutlery. Pissed off?
Navel fluff
I like to say good night to passengers as I get off the train at 5am.
Like an old restrictive carcass shell I strip it off and relax.
Capture me in my most down and out poses.
Got people stomping around the dance floor looking like angry little ants.
Why does the bass sound like it is saying 'sex, sex, sex, sex' over and over again?
Not being famous sucks when you know you will be famous and all you want is a little servive, sex, booze or money.
The End Club - a group of writers who know the end has already come and don't give a fuck.
Imagine the fucked up dreams when asleep in a club.
I love it when I can feel the music
I'm not sleeping goddamit. I am just enjoying the music with my eyes closed and drool running down my chin. It's seductive, you fuck wit.
Parched. Can't swallow. The bass reverberates around my dry throat.
Transvestites in cages tricking everybody. It's all a sham. Fake. Not real. But people pay money for it. Fucking disgusting money.
A bundle of guts vibrating in a heated box, wet vaginas and cocks rubbing against the ferocious crotch.
Pretending to dance with the girls in the cages.
Music. The great communicator. Along with fear. Making everyone feel good. Even the girls in the cages look happy as they sell their souls.
Am I a freak? Do they know? Am I different? What does THIS mean?
Sweat mixing with tears. Really. Is this love a sear of people moving but not knowing. Love is blind. But not this blind.
Floating nowhere, foot scraping the wall for grip.
Who comes to a club to lie down?
Such as: I am mitsubishiying this waterboat.
Poet and student. In his spare time he writes exposes on dreams and creates new verbs from nouns.
For a sack of bones, some guts and organs. You really are a beautiful individual. On the insides and out.
I can be nervous but I want to push the boundaries.
Camera pointing. Segment. One thousand dollars.
And that's when I realised she was a pike.
Navel fluff.
Why the long pause
Waking up to people having sex. Horrible. It sounded like they were dying.
It was brilliant. It was beautiful. There was magic in the air that night.
Sex, philosophy, travelling, love and vodka. A tale of one boy's journey to manhood in a London Hostel.
Laura love story
What do I know? I'm a young impressionable student with a brain like a sieve.
Exploring the heart and soul of the boulevard of broken dreams.
Love the little things in life. A warm bed. A cup of milk. A bottle of vodka. Salt and pepper squid. A bottle of vodka.
Sleeping under the stars these days means sleeping under pictures of celebs.
You gotta bleed to know you're alive.
Saturday, 8 August 2009
_Attracted to the light.
Don't wanna eat the light
that gives me my nicotine hit at night.
I delight in what's not 'right'.
Fuck that right. I'll blind you with my plight.
I'm slight, silently all right, it's my life.
There's death night at every corner am I right?
Of course I'm right.
I'm not left. Not bereft of moral insight._
_Like an anti liberal offence
I will implode your innocense.
Fuck sense.
Fuck the dividends.
Are we men?
Fuck my words.
Aren't they irrelevant?
It's like I am hell-bent to represent the fear in the present
intent of vehement men.
Deliberate intentions raise fearful expectations amongst friends._
_Clocks rattle and shadows shift. Time bends_
_I'm debased, high as a kite.
The sun is the only fire in sight.
Sky high, with Roxanne, Bob and Vietnam.
It's the second stand against the 'truthful' reprimand.
I'll stand against the chaotic failed hand.
For man I'll fight to the teeth like a dentist deceived in the Middle East.
Fighting for truth it's a 'truth' at least.
Nervous, not at ease.
Praying to God we are like yeast;
so we'll rise at sunrise when the heat
starts to cook our weather-beat cheeks._
_This reeks of cheekiness._
_Fuck the write up
I'll write you up for a fucking cut up
and then I'll cut you up with words spat out and sped up
to rip the top off that creativity cap
I'll wrap this with some smack that will devour attack,
placed at my doorstep like a baby born, with love lacked.
I Learnt to adapt and learnt to be made to be more
I'll feast on the floor where you walk just to see you fall
I'll score many more just to decorate this wall.
I'll watch you wail in the fall seeing you fail makes me happy to say
that I always should have dug your grave
just to make sure that you couldn't be saved from the mess you made.
I'll defend the heavens to the heathens in any matter and I'll meet the maker
when I find the faker.
I'll create emaciated grace just to fuck with your undisclosed face.
I can feel it and it's real in its unreal reality which proclaims a diversity.
Poison tipped death threats, linguists doing back flips just to have your head on bread before you're pronounced dead.
Make a mental note of this mental incapacitation that's gonna take you before aggravation and assault deals with what's left of your body that God wrought.
This isn't sport when there are no losers or winners ain't no spectators that be grinnin' when you're foundation is deliberately sinnin'._
_Yes yes yes.
In jest we ingest the impressed information.
This metriculation of idealised narration puts a nation at ease.
The ideas squeezed from fruit that doesn't hang in trees.
These thieves hang in threes; its hell's grim tyrant ruminating about ruination._
_Gotta get a handle of my kingdom.
Should'a known narcissistic kings don't
like to give up power and wont
alleviate the shower of pain so
gotta pop hood on this game until
the machinations come out plain.
I will fight for the common man,
I will fight for the unknown name._
Don't wanna eat the light
that gives me my nicotine hit at night.
I delight in what's not 'right'.
Fuck that right. I'll blind you with my plight.
I'm slight, silently all right, it's my life.
There's death night at every corner am I right?
Of course I'm right.
I'm not left. Not bereft of moral insight._
_Like an anti liberal offence
I will implode your innocense.
Fuck sense.
Fuck the dividends.
Are we men?
Fuck my words.
Aren't they irrelevant?
It's like I am hell-bent to represent the fear in the present
intent of vehement men.
Deliberate intentions raise fearful expectations amongst friends._
_Clocks rattle and shadows shift. Time bends_
_I'm debased, high as a kite.
The sun is the only fire in sight.
Sky high, with Roxanne, Bob and Vietnam.
It's the second stand against the 'truthful' reprimand.
I'll stand against the chaotic failed hand.
For man I'll fight to the teeth like a dentist deceived in the Middle East.
Fighting for truth it's a 'truth' at least.
Nervous, not at ease.
Praying to God we are like yeast;
so we'll rise at sunrise when the heat
starts to cook our weather-beat cheeks._
_This reeks of cheekiness._
_Fuck the write up
I'll write you up for a fucking cut up
and then I'll cut you up with words spat out and sped up
to rip the top off that creativity cap
I'll wrap this with some smack that will devour attack,
placed at my doorstep like a baby born, with love lacked.
I Learnt to adapt and learnt to be made to be more
I'll feast on the floor where you walk just to see you fall
I'll score many more just to decorate this wall.
I'll watch you wail in the fall seeing you fail makes me happy to say
that I always should have dug your grave
just to make sure that you couldn't be saved from the mess you made.
I'll defend the heavens to the heathens in any matter and I'll meet the maker
when I find the faker.
I'll create emaciated grace just to fuck with your undisclosed face.
I can feel it and it's real in its unreal reality which proclaims a diversity.
Poison tipped death threats, linguists doing back flips just to have your head on bread before you're pronounced dead.
Make a mental note of this mental incapacitation that's gonna take you before aggravation and assault deals with what's left of your body that God wrought.
This isn't sport when there are no losers or winners ain't no spectators that be grinnin' when you're foundation is deliberately sinnin'._
_Yes yes yes.
In jest we ingest the impressed information.
This metriculation of idealised narration puts a nation at ease.
The ideas squeezed from fruit that doesn't hang in trees.
These thieves hang in threes; its hell's grim tyrant ruminating about ruination._
_Gotta get a handle of my kingdom.
Should'a known narcissistic kings don't
like to give up power and wont
alleviate the shower of pain so
gotta pop hood on this game until
the machinations come out plain.
I will fight for the common man,
I will fight for the unknown name._
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Monday, 3 August 2009
Words
Words.
Some of us know how to use them and some don't.
Those who don't learn how to use them.
And those who already know forget the truth behind the words as they try to argue why or why not a word should be in its place.
Words are not here to impound people.
Words set people free.
Some of us know how to use them and some don't.
Those who don't learn how to use them.
And those who already know forget the truth behind the words as they try to argue why or why not a word should be in its place.
Words are not here to impound people.
Words set people free.
A letter to a friend I barely know... A bare letter to a friend who knows me...
If I leave myself alone to myself I find that I do tend to analyse things to death. And whether or not this puts me on a path to happiness or a path to pain I don’t fully comprehend as of yet.
When I write I am full of emotion. I feel like if I don’t write I will either go insane or burst. And so I write to let go of things that I have analysed. I write to find sanity in life.
When I talk about my study I come from the angle of a carefree student. I don’t take my studies seriously but people take them too serious.
In the words of David Gray “if you want it, come and get it” that’s how I feel. If I want it I will come and get it, or it will come and get me.
Right now I understand that I am simply a poet. Like the typical poet… I am unforeseen and unknown. Barely anybody who knows me truly knows me and who I am. I find understanding in cyberspace – in websites like this. Right now my struggle is to understand exactly who I am and what I stand for. If I am to become truly me I must face my demons.
In essence I am basically coming to understand that Rowan McKenzie, an 18 year old boy is not only part of a place in society which doesn’t understand who he is – but he is also part of a society who accepts and readily acknowledges what he may become. The struggle is to knit these two factors, to intertwine these to concepts so that I can feel at home.
My writing is where I am at home – but I also feel alienated because what I thought was my home seems to escapade farther and farther away from me.
The more I write the more I realise that I am not who I was.
The more I write the more I realise that who I am becoming is what I want to be.
The more I write the more I realise that people are going to have to come to terms with who I am.
They are going to have to understand that I am not as simple as I once was. That I am complicated. That I have my own ideas and beliefs. And that I am my own being.
And that is why I write. For relief. For understanding. For freedom.
xx
When I write I am full of emotion. I feel like if I don’t write I will either go insane or burst. And so I write to let go of things that I have analysed. I write to find sanity in life.
When I talk about my study I come from the angle of a carefree student. I don’t take my studies seriously but people take them too serious.
In the words of David Gray “if you want it, come and get it” that’s how I feel. If I want it I will come and get it, or it will come and get me.
Right now I understand that I am simply a poet. Like the typical poet… I am unforeseen and unknown. Barely anybody who knows me truly knows me and who I am. I find understanding in cyberspace – in websites like this. Right now my struggle is to understand exactly who I am and what I stand for. If I am to become truly me I must face my demons.
In essence I am basically coming to understand that Rowan McKenzie, an 18 year old boy is not only part of a place in society which doesn’t understand who he is – but he is also part of a society who accepts and readily acknowledges what he may become. The struggle is to knit these two factors, to intertwine these to concepts so that I can feel at home.
My writing is where I am at home – but I also feel alienated because what I thought was my home seems to escapade farther and farther away from me.
The more I write the more I realise that I am not who I was.
The more I write the more I realise that who I am becoming is what I want to be.
The more I write the more I realise that people are going to have to come to terms with who I am.
They are going to have to understand that I am not as simple as I once was. That I am complicated. That I have my own ideas and beliefs. And that I am my own being.
And that is why I write. For relief. For understanding. For freedom.
xx
gotta work on this too
Fuck the write up I'll write you up for a fucking cut up and then I'll cut you up with words spat out and sped up to rip the top of that creativity cap I'll cap this crap with a load of crap that will deny the rap to the banal. Learnt to adapt and learn to be made to be more I'll devour the floor that you walk on just to see you fall and I'll score the hall bounce off this wall gunna watch you wail in the fall seeing you fail makes me afraid to say that I always should have dug your grave just to make sure that you couldn't be saved it's what they say ironic justice my fist was full of solstice summer in the heavens I'll defend the heavens to the heathens in any matter I'll meet the maker when I find the faker in the race I'll create the emaciated grace just to fuck with your undisclosed face. Can't see it but I can feel it and it's real in its unreal reality which proclaims a diversity. Poison tipped death threats I'll have your head on bread before you're pronounced dead it's a mental incapacitation that's gonna take you before aggravation and assault deals with what's left of your body that God wrought. This isn't sport there are no losers or winners ain't no spectators that be grinnin' when you're for to the floor spinning no foundation to keep your centre and I'm deliberately sinnin' as long as you're being driven I'm living for the moment when I can take my time to deliver a final killin' rhythm.
gotta work on this
Yes yes yes.
In jest we ingest the impressed information.
This metriculation of idealised narration puts a nation at ease.
The ideas squeezed from fruit that doesn't hang in trees.
But thieves hang in threes, no pairs and its free.
Gotta get a handle of my kingdom.
Should'a known narcissistic kings don't
like to give up power and wont
alleviate the shower of pain so
gotta pop hood on this game until
the machinations come out plain.
I will fight for the common man,
I will fight for the unknown name.
In jest we ingest the impressed information.
This metriculation of idealised narration puts a nation at ease.
The ideas squeezed from fruit that doesn't hang in trees.
But thieves hang in threes, no pairs and its free.
Gotta get a handle of my kingdom.
Should'a known narcissistic kings don't
like to give up power and wont
alleviate the shower of pain so
gotta pop hood on this game until
the machinations come out plain.
I will fight for the common man,
I will fight for the unknown name.
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