The legend of Sacrement

It is a parody of particual judgment,

That in any of ones affairs ones compass points toward
Calculated movements.
As these movements become conspicuous.
So conspicuously crafted into mind,
That these mind tunnels take you through a
well thought out conscious effort
as how to get carried away.
My imagination pronounces its disappointment.
To break through the barriers of racist ideology.
So not purged upon.
But how intent you are to correct the kind of thinking,
That has no true religious aspect of it.
Religion has its own purpose to intervene with how the mind should function.
It is my personal philosophy that seeks truth however!
And even or odd,
Odd or Even...
Off or not on.
On or not off.
I think I saw her ingenuity in a heartbeat.
The virgin mother never dies in us.
We are always present in our mother's loins.
So through all of this.
I don't know what to say.
All I do know is my father who art in heaven,
Travels upward on this Hill - not down.
And as I reach this pinnacle.
At the height of this hill.
It rains like milk from heaven.
Expect this milk is not white in substance.
It rains black.
It rains in black.
And cleanses me.
My skin feels rejuvenated.
My soul feels it even more so.
And all of the sudden you go cold.
Cold in the milky substance that rains.
Back to a time you will always remember,
How your tears were made by God's hand.

I refuse to be purged upon for being racist, sexist or prejudice.
What connects all these things?
Not that we are consumers of god's unearthly image.
What is class conscious.
I will not be treated minimum wage.
I will not fear being discriminated against as second class.
What I pray for is to be a creative class conscious of individuals.
I will only tap the surface of the forehead.
It is a forceful nature hidden beneath the shadowless recess of my mind.

The Puzzle Factory

I feel a touch incandescent in the mastery of my comfort zone.

Alone in the recess of love.

I think of clues - in the crossword of life
All so uncarelessly crafted.
Struggle vs suffering
Is drudgery.
The drudgery of my misbehavior.
My skull starving for salvation...
My phantom Juliette (is what I call her....)
To whom I feel emptiness on the inside.
I just can't describe.
This monkey on my back,
About a secret unclaimed.
Magically magically present in my loneliness.
An Angel falling...
Falling...
Cheating gravity.
In this the place I am at peace.
Where nothing torchers me.
Where time passes as time terminates my fears.
Light spent all my own.
My mind combining my spirit with memory.
Finding a cemetery to land.

Beauty in the dark nature of romance

You can fake everything but your feelings.

I feel I've been going blind.
Because I regulate everything.
Even when depression hits.
It's a protest of hostility hidden deep inside of me.
How does one find the pretensious world as it surrounds you.
It is a cause of perpetuity.
Where everyone wants to last forever.
It's a toxic environment filled with a host of black flies buzzing around...
They make those zooming sounds.
Zooming zooming around.
Dead in your ear drum.
You could swear they just die in there.
A rotten death.
Where flies enter never to come out again.
So how I regulate things is not by death.
But by mourning.
Somberly so.
Such striking design.
Where intelligence meets its end.
And nothing appears equal.

We are all this shallow and you don't know how.

How alive you can be without necessarily feeling it.

Or isn't it another propositional form.

How can you feel alive without everyone else agreeing.

I am unsure which of which is more alluring.

Maybe never.

The smell of Brandy or your refined taste of (romantic) language in thought.

The small yet skinny fortune of your physical figure.
The luxury of a dollar store and everything in it.

Fire flies in the face of reason dancing at night, defining the recession of your true god like nature. I like it here.

And the abnormal nature of dying...
What is alone living your own heroic death without romance...
Are the final thoughts of my final resting place will be...

(Though I wish everyone knew it.)

This the hearts of hopeless romantics...
A sadder story never told.

My mind is drunk on it.

Against a psychic that won't lie.

Immortality in accusing gods imprisonment

If we are not all prisoners of God in God's mind then what is which you see makes you relate to that stated prejudice. My answer is we are aimless according to a phantom blueprint. There is no master plan. Only your self wonder.

Everything you outwardly express travels inside-out into your brain's circuitry. Therefore, this is true of how you impress your disbelief in the things you attribute to real life. What we fail to perceive as God given.

My disbelief in God would appeal to a prejudice in that our God would struggle with. Would it not.

To be gods prisoner if God experienced a life on earth. Makes us all mortals. If we are not affiliated to gods purpose then prejudice is man made proposition. Such is logic and dialectic. Divinity is that we are gods prisoners in God's mind. As if we were imprisoned.

The divine dialect can only be driven in pursuit of a liberating god. One that imagines god in prison for a crime god didn't commit. This is no different than informing yourself of prejudice to gods name. You are not a lie in gods imagery of that nature.

Mr clairvoyant

I have an ear ache.

My grandmother is here.

In my ear.

She lives in my ear.

In fact she has, lived in my ear since its birth.

The ear is a fascinating place to be.

Especially because it never leaves your mother's womb.

The most defined part of where it hurts the most. What it feels like to cry because it hurts so so much.

The aforementioned state of my personal psychometry.

My grandmother gave this to me. 

She was born with telepathy from the gods.