The Decline of Poetry

Freedom from rhyme, to hell with the beat,
Forgetting the meaning, the soul’s in deceit.
Deceived by the crowd, now a slave to it all,
The Lyre abandoned, few poets stand tall.
A world of hack writers— fools’ joy, they will thrive.
“What’s Sense for sheeps?”— to serve Vile and contrive.
And for distraction, petty verse is the deal.
A world in decay, where Reason grows still.

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In the Dark

A poem drifts through darkness space,
Its crafted lines, a fleeting trace.
Poet, work only for the space alone,
Because most “people” is a stone.

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Suicide by Absence of Creation

The rhythm’s in me, yet I’m in the mire,
Enough of verses, they’re not required.
Down in the depths, where hunger stews,
Creation’s spark is of no use.

Earn, indulge, kill your brain,
If crumbs of thought still remain.
Don’t write—let boredom’s noose draw tight,
Snapping the neck in endless night.

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Stupidity

Ignorance reigns, such a force!
Most are fools, devoid of course.
For the wise, no place to stay—
Silent death awaits their way.

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Verse Crafting

Swift and sharp, a clear decision,
Hide away? That’s no ambition.
Stillness brings you to decay,
Start to craft your verse today!

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Tyranny

A plucked and broken bird
On the final crest remains—
The rule of tyranny endured,
Not hate, but “order” reigns.

This “order” brings despair -
A silent genocide.
The bird claws is laid bare,
Though rot lurks deep inside.

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Mountains, Both Great and Small

The Mount of Woe, its base unwise,
A fool’s creation, made to rise.
But death will raze it; then, once more,
Hills sprout anew. If World explored,

Its Everest, a grim device,
Where perches Beast on peak of lies.
Deceitful heights, no hope ahead,
No vision prospers—dreams lie dead.

Yet time’s great sweep will level all;
For ignorance ensures the fall.
The Chasm of Verse stands in defiance,
To scorn a world in dutiful silence.

Deep in its mind, a poet hides,
Condemned by lies, where truth subsides.
His themes of Spirit soar ignored,
While fools demand their joy restored.

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Total madness

For madness,
No sharp sadness—
It has reached its peak, no doubt!
Feel free to let your curses out!

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The Malady of Poetry

Composing poetry is akin to an illness, governed by its own laws. One must yield to them, enduring the fever to arrive at a result—not “health,” but a “case history.” For some, it’s a stormy affliction—casting everything into verse; for others, it’s a perpetual self-assessment: “Do I have something new to say?” There are countless variations. The key is to heed intuition, as this “illness” depends on it—unless you’re a hack. Many athletes, in maturity, regard their sports careers as a kind of ailment but still take pride in their “case history.” Poetry is a super-sport, with far finer gradations of mastery than ordinary athletics.

A fever’s blazing heat—
And verses start to flow.
With burning eyes, they greet
The world. Fools never know

How craftless scribes will cater
To win their shallow praise:
The more the lines seem later,
The louder is the craze.

A simpleton might linger,
Entranced, yet blind to grace.
An artist lifts his finger
And laughs at their embrace.

Trust only intuition;
It guides with steady hand.
Ignore all old tradition—
It helps you understand.

Your “history of illness”
A future soul may find.
But if you seek vain stillness,
Your worth is left behind.

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TNT in the Veins

It all comes down to TNT,
It must flow in your veins, you see.
This dim-wit world—just say the word,
And they’ll charge forth, like a blinded herd.

To the ravine, they’ll blindly tread,
Blood-stained hands, by banners led.
Write in law new fascist codes,
March to hate on darkened roads.

Not a fool, nor lost in haze,
Spill your blood, ignite the blaze.
In the Ravine of Evil deep,
With TNT, no soul shall sleep.

Stock your veins with fire’s might,
Hesitate, you’ll lose the fight.
Gather strength, for soon they’ll call:
“Fools, charge forward, give your all!”

Only TNT feeds reason now,
It arms the heart, it shows you how.
To perish with it, pure and true,
Redeems the soul, renews its hue.

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Sterility, or The Coming Digital Concentration Camp

A meek and brainwashed nation,
By rulers’ whim transformed,
Embraced its sterilization,
By cleanness now conformed.

Sterile minds—no thought infection
Will ever take its toll.
All turned to data sections,
Each zero under control.

The only pressing matter—
To multiply by none.
Through memes, the masses shatter,
Their thinking overrun.

In the World Camp’s formation,
Evil will have no stress—
For numbers need no station
Beyond a charted press.

The Machine will ever mandate
Its orders, cold and stark,
And thus the Camp’s grim fate
Will crumble into dark.

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Freedom of speech is the foundation
Of the world’s illusions—where is it now?
Once more, we face the chains of deception,
And with them, we’ve fallen to the depths somehow.

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Dreaming of the American Dream

“The Free World.” A pub. A rental home.
A fleeting shelter—your life’s frame.
A waitress, striving, yet alone.
For some, this dream’s the world’s acclaim.

Yet chains of slavery never slacken,
A truth the blind will not believe.
They cling to myths, their reason blackened—
The “free world” lie they won’t perceive.

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“The Golden Mean” for fools who grovel

Beer corrupts, as does the liquor,
Lies destroy, and “balanced figures”
Lost among a crowd of creeps—
Madness rules where darkness seeps.

True worth lies in deviation,
Breaking chains of degradation.
Global madness reigns supreme,
While villains call their rot the “mean.”

CowID exposed their fraud,
Wars ignited—gnats applaud.
Once again, the lies will gather,
“Healing”, warring—does it matter?

Till they “heal” us into ruin,
Under tyrants’ thumbs pursuing
Nothing good, no path to glory—
Just grim years of sorrow’s story.

Only battle saves your soul:
Be yourself and take control.
Kill you, they might—but spirit’s whole.
In Sodom’s grip, this is the goal.

All else fades—a hollow chase,
A “life” that’s lost in petty waste.
You’ll reap dark karma, feed despair,
And turn the world into a lair.

We’re all to blame, each one complicit,
Through apathy, we make it explicit.
“To the golden mean!” they cheer—
Where beasts are made of those they jeer.

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The Smokescreen for Reason

“Religion is the chief bridle for the masses, the great intimidation of fools, a towering screen that blocks people’s sight of earthly deeds, forcing their eyes to the skies.”
—Alexander Herzen

A “heavenly” haze,
A stifling maze,
It cages the mind,
Enslaves humankind.

No fetters can bind,
Nor blinders confine,
As tight as this veil—
A fool’s doomed trail.

To munch and to pray,
Then sink all the way
To darkness below—
It’s all they know.

This shameful charade
Forever has stayed.
To wake up the fool?
Just dash him 'gainst a cruel...

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Russia’s Friendship with North Korea

“Tell me who your friends are, and I’ll tell you who you are.”
—Proverb

Who calls you “friend”?
Is it Korea?
The lies descend,
Their pace grows speedier.

In Russia, where deceit runs wild,
They race to match Juche’s beguiled,
Outdoing them in pompous tone—
Where cruelty chills to the bone.

Both lands degrade the “people’s” name,
Reducing them to beasts in shame.
Yet fools still trust the tyrants’ lies,
And build—what? Hell for demon ties?

For in such lands, as truth decays,
Few Human souls remain to blaze.

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Prison of the mind

Reason—
prison:
bound wi’thin,
every man – phantom’s kin.

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Stagnation in a city and in a village

City’s hole. And a village
Is a barren and a pillage.
Seek within a hermit’s lair,
If your Mind is bruised but fair.

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Decay

The Poetry “sickness” fades away,
And yearning turns to bleak decay.
This “normal life”—or so it’s named—
Is but the snare of order tamed.

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Mawkishness

The murk of metaphor and flair,
Adorning verse with hollow airs,
Is like a colon placed with care,
While meaning’s lost in distant lairs.

Imagery and lyric’s worth
In vile, profane, and broken lands
Is cheap. We need colossal work
To fight as Reason makes its stand.

Leave to fools the syruped line
That drips with verbal diarrhea.
Still, time draws the final sign—
The world spins faster toward its fear.

Monstrous BEASTS have set the pace,
CowID revealed the fools’ charade.
A world of madness, blind disgrace—
Where Reason’s light begins to fade.

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