ADDICTION

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The cure for addition,

is not prevention.

 

Treating addiction,

a path to liberation.

 

Should people be prevented?

Or should they be liberated?

 

To feel that liberation,

Requires condemnation.

But colder than rejection.

The curtain of prevention.

 

What say we, the veil of corporations?

Pray tell us, dear algorithmmm…sss

If

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‘If’, I think, is the beginning of all journeys.

If a choice exists,
for you to take,
regardless,
of the one you’ve taken.
It’s true that you have taken,
a journey to frustration.

You have no choice,
as to where you’ve travelled.
You have no choice,
becomes unravelled.

Presented choice,
devoid of substance.
I’m substance of,
what will be travelled.

Travelled substance
presented choice,
knows it’s direction
is obvious.

The obvious,
seen regardless.
Despite of all
scenarios.

So choose, despite the obvious
and see, that being curious,
is IF, all over again.

‘Even the birds are chained to the sky’

If you want to know how the universe is, watch a starling murmuration.

 

Watching unique parts arrange,

presiding back, where beauty’s from.

And knowing nothing, quite the same,

from unique parts, is chaos born.

 

Undisturbed; appreciation.

 

Observing this, one could relate

one’s own experience.

Unique part, myself creates,

yet still I see the us.

 

And seeing we, and knowing that

to move is not unique.

Unique disturbed, from part to part,

chaotic beauty, lays in between.

Religion has no Slaves

Us people, we bear the cross.

A weight, ourselves have caused.

Seek relief, and suffer loss,

what use, to stop and pause?

 

No use at all, as we endure

and ponder life unbound.

Endure we must, to be secure

so follow those, claim to be found.

 

One trait exists, it weaves within,

reveals itself as pure.

Security, in love or sin,

wins both by peace and war.

 

Peace, hard thing to define;

war is much the same.

Choose, cross carried by Devine,

or freedom’s fight, ourselves to blame.

Sun’s Seasons

Age is something plants don’t die of. Continuously reproducing bodies. Back to nothing, a pollinated seedling. Spring green, starts poking out of dead things.

Not dead, but Green’s experience.

Green, seeing death, where it came from, foreseeing his life is succumbing, back to its arrival…and dying.

And Green as we return to, and constantly reminded, it’s possible, by living, We’re dying.

But each Green returning, from more Greens before him, starts seeing, it’s more Greens ahead.

So those that are dead, saw those Greens ahead. Are you dead, seeing the Green that’s beyond, or Green, seeing death, where you’re from?

The Caterpillar

My present contribution lurks,

all knowing, sat beneath myself.

My-self thought known, itself converts

to fleeting truth by stealth.

That truth appearing, itself a thing

dictated by its finite time.

Ripples caused by fragile wing,

rising, seeking to recline.

Defying life, I strive to fly,

to higher realms, I’m drawn.

Myself beneath it seeks to die,

and memory’s fear, translates to scorn.

But through time’s revelations;

fragmentations of the truth;

the body’s inclinations;

the brief hallucinations;

appears myself a truce.

The grace to know that being free,

depends not on escaping.

Freedom seen occasionally

endures because it’s saving.

Saving precious memories

my present self the killer.

Bodies are like falling leaves,

Life’s elixir, poor caterpillar.

Selfishness


My mind wonders

away from me

so frequently

I rarely see.

But when I glimpse                                        

my wondering mind

it’s then I find

the cogs at grind.

Fleeting revelation
Enduring correlation 

dualist idolisation

My mind a separation.
A fools idol, that mind, a’wondering,

to freedoms call, it goes a’blundering,

as I recall, and I’m surrendering 

my freedoms lost, to idle rendering. 

To know this creeping paradox,

is to sever clinks, disguised as cogs. 

The minds’ defiance, it unlocks

unveiling pebbles, from the rocks.

Seeing, yet Believing

It only matters if I’m looking.

Close my eyes, just me, nothing.
Sometimes, I feel my eyes burning.
They have control that they aren’t yearning.

If I close my eyes, the things they would see, still happen.

Things, without my eyes piercing.

Things, not knowing my eyes be looking.

Having not pierced those things, they be, undetected. Those thoughts continue, undisturbed and unaffected.

And being, having not been affected,        to the world, I beckon.

Waiting for attention.

Father’s Day

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One day a year, that’s all you get.

My age in days, in all my time.

Beyond your years, ’tis with regret,

would take to give you, one of mine.

 

This might seem like a cunning plan,

to escape my obligation.

But I conclude – it’s rude to cram,

my thanks in finite occupation.

 

I think my thanks can more be known,

by drawing from the years we’ve spent.

Instead of the thanks you think I’ve shown,

think of the things our time has lent.

 

Considering this reality,

one day of thanks’ absurdity.

Serves only a calamity,

to undisturbed affinity.

 

What’s greater still, than both our years,

is this Earth still endures.

And with it lives, transcends our fears,

that thanks endured, secure.