LordAnshin

Insults are laughable. They come from another, A being of your age, Lower or higher? Sticks and stones... Don't bother with such Phrases. Rather laugh instead. Welcome insult, I find it an interesting Gander through imaginative Thought. An insult replayed is one Not worth my time. I would rather one Speak loudly through Prose, not decibels. Granted, they may Hurt. Maybe you let Them, Or perhaps truth Be found within, Or malevolent Aggression now known? Rather, insults are Mistakes. One makes the soul Grow, Should it choose to. So come back to me, Insult me once more. Laugh might I... If so, Try again.

The Author be a poet Of a long con. Thematic structure, Phrased through Centuries of page. Appreciation fills My lungs, for such Poets exist in great Number. Some of which grand, Others revealing faulty Legs. A standpoint of culture, Testament to ourselves, Come from the Tomes of old. Ancient adventures, written From mouth to papyrus, Copied and sold. Differences in people, Bring strength within Species. The Author be a poet, To the frivolty of life. Pages are memories, Lived once more Through the soul.

The Song wrote for me, Had stolen love I desired. The Writer be damned, It was for me to perform! Instead showcased by a Fool's instrument. How could my love Betray me so? Music be my lifeblood, My Raison D'etre. So cruel was her grasp, Lulling me over, Lorelei. Yet the Fool curried favor, Moreso than mine. But his art is pitiful, Still a wretch from the womb. Growth has small grasp upon him. From what plague does Dissent dwell? Our bond was special... Writer be damned! I thought you were to Be with me, Lorelie? But a cuckold awakened, Firmly slithering away With my Song. Lorelei held within it's Vile grasp, Th

A yellow tulip by the ear, Withers and dies. A crimson rose by the heart, Collapses through time. A chrysanthemum by the mind, To have never existed at all. A kaleidoscope of nectar, Came from hornet deaths. Spring follows With a forest fire. Burnt pigment of once Lush instruments to the Beholder. The Eyes, Forever blind Cannot fathom physical Form. So...what is beauty? Manifested by The senses? Or perhaps, The imagnative work Of youth? No... Death be the Beauty. Memory the ultimate Work. My Magnum Opus, Breathes still. I wait to reach Beauty.

... ... ... ... ... Words prevail me, Found empty. Partial space throughout A white world. Understood little... ... Know little, Flow little, Belittle, Rekindle, The self I could've been. ... Young. Waiting. Conveying. Gentrifying thoughts. Waiting. ... What for, Who knows. Who be who, When thought "I think therefore... ... Where be I, In a room, The frequency flows through, Laying where I always be, Helpless to frivolous thoughts. ... How can I Take myself seriously? These words come Not from the heart, But the mind. ... Words of the mind, Mean little. To us, To them, To me. ... I know little, For I be little, Tantamount to nothing, Gargant