It is hard to identify as a soul when the ego is the greatest poet alive.

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Of course its love that kills him, then he uses the white blank page to build himself up again, shouting at love to come and kill him again. You have to admire it; you have to admire egos. They speak of ego deaths, egos do. Egos speak of their own death and tell you how good it was, that’s how admirable they are. They’re the ultimate warrior. I am the ultimate warrior. Listen to him, my ego, he is ruthless, soon he won’t be able to sleep and be writing sad little stories with a sore stomach as he lays in bed feeling nothing. What a trip.

I am fluctuation,

I am not fluctuation,

I say as I pull the arms off a daffodil. The world is the epitome of be careful what you wish for. I don’t wish for anything and then get something thirty times better, then it leaves and I tell God, “That’s why I didn’t want anything!”

And he replies, “Well, ya gotta have somethin’!”

Whatever.

Boils down to the most mundane philosophy that you rolled your eyes at as a kid, as an adult and reluctantly as a kid adult.

Don’t cry cause it’s over, smile cause it happened.

don’t do anything.

You're doomed either way, but I won’t fall into the devils’ hands that are covered in dry skin. The devil loves pleasure, the devil is a yes man, he would have access to moisturiser, the best kind, to think of the devil suffering is an admission to time. Cause all pleasures soon turn sour. Can pain turn, whatever the opposite of sour is?

It’s just all indifference, you hurl yourself into impermanence out of boredom and just wish to be sitting on a couch in a room that doesn’t change.

Each room looks different depending on how the voices behind the eyes tell you to see it. I can’t fight them anymore, I'm too peaceful. I'm so peaceful I am going to fight something. Maybe myself. Beat him off.

Still not doing that, except I did it this morning cause there is a chance I'm going to make way with a polish girl. I'm just not interested. Ah, my heart has even corrupted my cock. What strength these organs have. My body is the slums, ungovernly governed. That smug soul who has been here a million times, who leaves to live a billion life’s and refuses to tell us. Maybe he is learning too. I'm literally looking at him and asking him to calm me down, nothing…

Fine then, have your secrets.

So I write to you, whoever I wish to woo next, whoever I need to tell me I'm real. Then I will despise you for being so stupid to think that concept even exists.

My feet are swollen, soon they will fall off, then ill yearn for this very moment. That’s what the soul is trying to tell me through its silence, that this will be a memory littered with shimmer. Well, it is pretty good, let’s be honest. The green of the leaves look at me with a smile, knowing I can’t help but immortalise them on the page. They droop, scared of autumn, they reach for the sun, desperate for more and then they shy away from the rain when their mouths are full. They’re no less hopeless than I. Good, hope lives in the future, I'm arm in arm with my soul, his 400000-year-old cock. Seen the inside of the most beautiful women that never made the stories of the past. Maybe they did, maybe I fucked princess Diana in high school.

If I did, she would’ve turned down the king, turned down the monarchy, I would have fucked some sense into her. Maybe I did, that’s why the queen had to have her deleted. Here she comes now, as a Nepalese man, gross.

Bob Dylan, what a mind. I strum keyboards with less majestisicm.

Can you think of Shakespeare making up words and everyone just adds them to the dictionary?

Can you imagine trying to define definition in the dictionary?

Can you imagine Shakespeare masturbating and taking a shit?

I'm tired of this cotton candy world making me feel insane because the little voice in my head wants to burn it down. Wants everyone to run around in circles in fear of their impending death. We all sit beside the truth without looking at it. Here’s my ego, the tough one talking of ego deaths of the past and how good they are, until its his turn. You are going to die buddy, that’s why you write, because you're so scared of it. That’s why you love that Latina because you want her to birth little exciting fat assed babies. Well, you got to do something. I'm free, lucky as a four leafed land rover. All the demons I've killed in the past have left me with the most mundane battles. Freedom and love. The liberty of my mind who can literally do and say whatever it wants. Doesn’t want to say anything bad, empathy swirls in my flesh, looking at a man alone and thinking how I too, am a man alone. I hum love, sometimes I forget, I never hum hate, but I sure do feel it.

I feel it.

I feel.

Shit, I think I'm real.

Stop…

It’s too much.

Fuck that.

Soon it’ll all be over. I can’t handle all you have got, but give me what you think I can handle, please… God.

Thank her, for beneath the pain you know she is right.

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