Everyone feels themselves the maker of things.
Alone in our body’s cells,
we do a branded work.
We have the secret knowledge
inside,
and we know the meanings of things.
We just can’t express itself to men.
We live in our longings
a perpetual keeper
unable to handle stuff,
but ours is the mooring
to the base of life.
We know no one above us
in this,
and even ones that we worship,
they’ve just validated ourselves.
We can keep them.
No one else can.

I am the secret front of time.
The world calls my name
human.
I am a draft everyone wears
in their rise to fame.
I can’t control fate,
and the talent show,
I can’t grate my time against it,
but I am bigger than lost rooms,
or, if I am famous,
for your information,
I’ve been put there
by all eyes on me,
and the knife I am to everyone
I don’t have to please,
it’s sought within,
and I believe
mine eyes hold all true.
I’m good to everyone
even if I’m not good to some.
I am the eyes of life and time
in my living room.

Surprise, surprise, surprise,
you are not the march of the universe,
or anything tall and big.
You are a worm’s crawl to our Sublime,
and you would spit on the Sublime now,
if you saw it.
You would not hold it right.
You would not even know it’s there
in your tangible real.

I fight this battle every day,
sometimes on a horse,
sometimes in the slime
of morose doubt.
I can count my sins all day long.
I can sit and bash myself upon the head
for being such an eager worm.
Here’s the kitten:
I sit in the arms of the divine all day.
My doubt is not to its existence.
I have knowledge firmly there.
I see the Larger like I take breaths,
but is this a whirlpool,
a jolly roger’s madness ride,
that has no issue for a starstruck human being?

I see the Larger like I count my face,
and it’s suspicious to me.
It doesn’t count humans.
Oh my goodness the proxies’ wear.
Everything’s for the larger good,
the whole.
Individuals get trampled in the stampede,
and we have to stand this,
because it’s all a dream,
even our suffering,
and we are nothing more than sinless souls
putting on masks of flesh for lifetime wears.
The flesh doesn’t count.
The soul does.

Great Department Green,
is my soul in my beating heart,
the exclamation point of tears in my eyes
I fight back left and right?
How heavy is this pain
a moral wear,
how real, fresh, and alive,
and yet it’s cut asunder by ideas,
by momentary experiences I’ve won and lost,
by a look there a breath there
on God’s heights,
like you throw bones to dogs?

Feel me I’m real,
the character, the mask, You’ve donned.
I cannot last like this,
a plaything upon Your pittance.
I need Your honest answer
to my living pain,
or crush me now and don’t look down at me again (uh-gayn).
The pittance,
the role and show,
how do we handle it?

Time
is larger than our showroom.
More power to yah God.
What’s man doing there with his head blown off?
It inspired
an amazing journey.
It manufactured
an attempt
to find another rule than suffering,
point out joy as my hunting rifle.
It’s my must now.
It’s where I lay my head,
oh time machine,
I go.
It’s important
that’s a carpet,
not a bed of nails.

Do you hear me breathe?
I’m countin’
the breaths of all of us,
and I am sin, hold me down?