bandpitdeviant

I am everywhere, all about you. I can get you to do whatever I want. Manipulating language is easy. So is controlling my tonal pitch. I can even consciously control the dilation of my pupils. I'll throw you false-tells, just to sooth any unconscious doubts. I can read you like a book, and give you the spoilers. I can even deceive myself so strongly as to be honest when I'm lying straight to your face. I know that you'd like to believe that you can spot a liar, but you can't. I know that you'd like to believe that you're in control of your own mind, but you're not. Zen and the Art of Lying- and I am a master. I'm not even one of the ones that you need to worry about, though. I only care about

Men speak of drunkedness
In such ill-begotten tongues.
But they doth forget,
What they regret;
What drunkedness becomes.

No purple haze;
But wavering gaze-
A look at their own soul.
As worlds doth drift-
The mind, doth shift,
Like barber's twilering pole.

They curse it, 
Though they love it,
This haunted muse, 
both foul and fair.
Their tongues 
Speak adoration, 
till the morning
Brings despair.

Were I a rose with no thorns,
To duly pay the price;
I tell you now, quite truly-
Beauty comes at such a price...

The night afore,
The morning after-
Advil's cheaper 
Than advice.

Oh party girl, oh party girl,
How you love the boys
That get you drunk.
Do your pneumatic dance
Like the blow-up doll
That you pretend to be 
For them.

How you love to chatter
Like a rabid squirrel on helium
About Jersey Shore 
And sing Niki Minaj
Off key
With your fellow nutty, slutty squirrels.

Liquor, sugar, sweat, semen, make up, perfume-
Fly paper skin,
Citronella breath,
Bug zapper pussy.

I probe the twin black holes in your head,
Searching for any light,
For I know 
There is a God somewhere in there,
Somewhere.
But I only see my own reflection.

You are what magazines tell me is beautifu

We are but drops of mourning rain,
In transit twixt the cloud and drain.

We gather in amorphous mass,
Untill we're called down from the past.

The fall into separation
Is nought but hallucination.

From one we came, to one we go.
We rush toward the ground below.

Upon return, we meet our end.
Then rise, that we might fall again.

One eye on the world, the other fixed upon my soul;
One espies the infinite, the other, a black hole;
One is all it takes to take, when truth is your true goal;
One becomes the other, and I know I've lost control.

When your lucid life becomes another waking dream;
Another danse macabre on a mote in a sunbeam;
Still trapped within the light of your father's evil gleam;
Praying for a respawn, we swim frantically upstream.

Standing on the surface of the planet's living brain;
Lobotomized, desacrilized, with circutry profane;
Is this the mind of God, or mine- are they both the same?
Me, or us, or God? Or have all three now gone insane?

How m

This is a serious question. I know that there is a lot of good work being done right now to combat the many global crises- but they will only ever be treating the symptom until the root of the problem is taken care of. Why on Earth are we led by the least of us toward our own destruction? What is the scientific community doing?

Who creates the darkness and the light?
Who divides the daytime from night?
Who draws the line between wrong and right?
You do,
You do.

Who knows your every thought and deed?
Who spoils your soul with hate and greed?
Who has exactly what you need?
You do,
You do.

Who puts the meaning behind your voice?
Who fills your heart when you rejoice?
Who enslaves your mind, but leaves you a choice?
You do,
You do.

Who gives you pleasures to tempt your taste?
Who gives you time with which to waste?
Who redeems you once you are disgraced?
You do,
You do.

Who's responsible for all your pain?
Who separates sacred f

Beauty and truth, found outside
through the window, or a door.
Pastels of grass and hues of bark
The sounds compliment the picture painted
A chorus of chimes, and chirps, and calls
In this place, the world shrinks away.
But is brought back, in higher relief.
Inspiration comes to those who feel,
Who listen, smell, see, touch, hear, BE.
In this box, the mind sighs.
And takes its long needed vacation.
For all you need here are your senses,
And thought is not required.
But it is still a box, though it inspires.
A small, enclosed space of light
Ever to change, never to grow.
Kept in check by the walls.
The walls the WE put th

Your life is the page, and you are the pen.
Your path in this world determines the end.
Hero or villain- it's all up to you.
Who do you abdicate authorship to?