(We're all broken inside, some call it 'original sin.' It's rare for someone to buildup and make something of themselves in originality. And when they do, they illuminate everywhere they go. Become a cultural iconoclast)

Our minds, between the void and spasm of magic
memory is a scent that never fades, images as
poster childs. Rebecca, black dress wearing woman,
stained in white pearls, her eyes are red. We’re got
a tormented devil that is boundless in it’s torturing.
Life is brief as our grief is long. As the pain is endless.
In the end, I gave into the battle and sold my soul.
Giving up a life where it never bared fruit. To a life
of gold plaque’s and the ability to illuminate
anything I touch. Though gun-shots are promised,
from the boys here on Earth. I hit the weed and
pray I can fly high. But fuck-them all, as I scream
in tongues, waging war in a fight for this globe.
As I remain in this paradox. When the officials
announce my death, it’s a mystery, though rumours
of it, shall spread, like paint over blank canvases.
It’s fiction that I’ve disappeared and fail to exist.
They’ve already shot at me.

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Becoming something magical