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Excerpt for The Sense of the Pen-Real Gland by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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Contents



Chapter 1 The Backbone Inspiration

Chapter 2 The Waking Eye Opens

Chapter 3 For Love

Chapter 4 Sheet Music

Chapter 5 Touching The Universe

Chapter 6 Conceptual Sphere

Chapter 7 The Bright Strings Light

Epilogue





Introduction



Intense at the least. Blood boiling and the ceiling falling. This must be the end. My heart swells at an alarming rate. Am I at all late for my date with fate? What about this life proposed? What about all the promises that have been made? My vessels vibrate and my body shakes Could this be the end? Can I mend… can I meet my dreams before night’s end? I feel nervous and this feeling gets severe. Only hope, is what I feed on. I prey on negativity and ravish. I chase my goals and accomplish. I stretch myself and sink into my depth. The severe feeling now becomes constricted before it is drained. A rush of agony and anticipation grows. There comes an energy that urges me. I must take my chances. I must love.

I must gather and conquer. I have surrendered and have grown wiser. I am the dream. I am the might. This past severe is now dust. Dust, in which I trust for it has brought me might. Soon we will swim in the streams of broad delight. I am the dream. I must win… I must succeed.

I hear the voice that never spoke. All the pictures fate should have drawn. I burn from the saliva that made me choke. I am sorry for the stories I never told. There are lines of moments that make up the pages of my throat. Where they walk, take me where they gallop. Where they stand, show me where they command, take me where they are

Great One, wrap me in your arms. For What's in a name? It must be continual pain... A provident blame in shame or fame... A carriage of what man has in his hands... It must be in the heart... The pump that bleeds recognition... The sound that calls for mention... A memory which remains of what and how a man spends his days.

Well on my way... Watching shots fly away, crying and singing; hoping for rain. Looking for a better me, looking to rid my woes. It is heavy and hard on this road. I look to the sun for passion. I watch the stars and drool on the moon for places I cannot imagine. Wrapped up in the cold. Holding onto my loneliness post. I am a sad case for older folks. Well on my way looking for a brighter day. Looking to do away with my sombre ways. There are lanes of confinement after we find freedom. Just wall after wall prohibiting. We best grind and find sound mind to get out of this prison. Success is the vision. We still remain wishing; waiting for angels and saints to help heal this severe pain. Wounded body and weight around my waist. It is crying times, I have to find love again. It is lonely season again I have to find a comforter again. The demon of lust is restless. Doubtful thoughts are ever present. Unfaithful wenches are relentless. I have this huge clock on my lap. Sitting on this wooden dock waiting for my time. I will rise, I will live, I will find.

Well on my way to find the future me that is bright and fights for life. Looking to live the dream, longing to embrace the vision.

Chapter 1 - The Backbone Inspiration



Begging



It looks promising... High heels, make-up all over her face. Smudged in all that is fake just to have an expensive lay. Smeared in all the sleaze the civil world can think of just to have him pay. Pay for drinks and dance the night away and then lay. So beautiful and upright but always played. The night is a rocker and no room for any show stoppers. The bass is arousing and the alcohol has her drowning. Exuberant and wet ‘til the morning until he says... LEAVE, LET'S NOT MAKE THIS SOMETHING THAT WON'T REMAIN. IT WAS A GOOD NIGHT BUT AS THE SUN HAS RISEN IT HAS JUST SEEMED TO FADE.

She's back in the mirror with the truth to face. Nobody to tell her she's beautiful at her place. Missing the moments of the first love, juvenile and innocent days. As the tears rush into her eyes and run down her face, it seems to be the only real thing and the make-up just dough for some cake.

Yearning and burning she finds herself kneeling as night after night she had been tossing and turning. Praying for a man whom is of her love deserving. Just begging, kneeling, yearning and burning as every other night it is tossing and turning.

Just the shrill which is the sound of how living a lie kills. Begging for humanity, asking for more than frivolity. Longing for a love true, knocking on the doors of chance to find hers true. Begging, knocking, yearning and thirsty. Just to have a guy from the night through the day. To avoid the sadistic and lonely nights of tossing and turning. The twist would be dancing and falling. Just begging to have one true who can break the fake bars that protect her from you.

Begging and waiting for the truth to attack the lie she has been defending.



















Clothed In Coloured Covers



It is a pity. We are spiritual beings that love this world so much.

We constantly want to touch, feel and confirm the existence of things.

Constantly wanting providence. When the truth to face is the essence we ran from in the beginning.

We prefer the mask to the flesh. We would rather wear the mask that comforts than the flesh that hurts.

We want to be lied to. We want to live a lie.

The awe of this truth that is revelation is too much. And yes it is okay, I guess, in the beginning, to wear the mask because it fits and close company stays happy.

But life as we know it; is a progress. It may be warm and soothing in the beginning but with time, the sands run out as those of the hour glass.



But love intense, love intense for the mask. The truth where it is, all too grotesque. Oh! No filthy, filthy, what truth? Let's just cover it up, splash colours and find reason to fit. Is that not the attitude.

Who be insane as to fall in love and romance the truth; he be a fake man, they would say. But what if a child grew with the nudity and pain of the truth?

This would be a child of the world. This would be one being who lives reality which in the common world would be magic.

It is a pity, it is tragic, how we lose that magic and wear the mask.

The mask, carrying plentiful lies. Exuding endless illusion.



Freezing mental grimace, where a way of thinking would be still, time has stood, and the orchestrators (those who decide the order) capture.

And in time, before you know it, individuals have not only lost identity but the truth that ignites the soul which breathes consciousness.

You look around and all you see are models, frozen in time, clothed in coloured covers.

But where is family? Where are the real people, the brother, sister, mother and father. Somewhere lost in a land where they have no hands to mend, only eyes to watch catastrophe unfold. The reason remaining is the guidance that was instilled. The continuity and survival of these maxims is the hope for tomorrow.



Confessions of a Sinner



I'm a nice bad guy looking for redemption. I'm the weird guy looking for attention.
I'm the ruin looking for significance. I'm the underground hotshot looking for remembrance.
I'm the dreamer who never lands on the shallow ground. I'm the beast in chains who knows not freedom, always bound.
I'm in the way of pain. I'm the help to the sane.
I'm a lover with a crazy heart. I'm a heartbreaker to all my sweethearts.
I'm the cold and ruthless prisoner. I'm the hero who is a soul healer.
I'm the child in confusion. I'm the adult who has long been chances refusing. I'm the decision when there are multiple options for choosing.
I'm a killer for not living. I'm alive because I push myself to keep dreaming.
I'm the demon who has been bruising mortality. I'm the angel who has been bringing life to this soul that has been dying.
I'm the height that planes fly in. I'm the depth that ships sink in.
I'm the question that stands to reason. I'm the answer that is vague and displeasing.
I'm the life and light at the end of the tunnel. I'm the dimmest darkness before the end.
I'm the human that works with hand. I'm the one blamed when there are helpless children who are not fed. I'm the one blamed when there are poisonous programs on television and children have not gone to bed. I'm the last option when I could've been the first choice instead. I'm the weight at the top, I'm called the head.

I'm the sinner when I've done something amiss. I'm righteous when the good things I do not miss. I'm wise when my ways have no twists. These are confessions of a sinner that are refined in Heaven if on earth they are cryptic.

























Consciousness



It was only conversation. Exchanging thoughts that are animate. Expressing one's depth and intellect. It was the expression of effect. It was a colour of reason and word of dialect.

It was an inspired day where things were clear. It was the eruption of epiphany. The expansion of sensibility. It was eager to show. Eager to let free and make it self-known. The power within revealed in conversation. Inspirational elements that evoke dead and dry places. The flow of vivified waters that breathe and pass through the ears and go to the brain where they will live. Live and enliven all dead elements of consciousness.

Consciousness, the acknowledgement of existence. The attaining of value to each breath. The mass transferred into words as within speech the words spoken have weight. Weight that will lift the sleepy masses. It will awaken nations and give motivation. It will hypnotize cowards and victims to be fighters. It will sound the order of God to remind the vast majorities of Who has authority. It will be daunting; the voice of consciousness. It will give stance where there is an entity or being invertebrate. It will send a message to your soul that is lively. The heart will not only beat but vibrate. The waves of flow, on the go; conscious, will reflect the air inside of you that pulsates.
It will inspire nations to fight for their lives. It will remind them to not give up and never subside.
The voice of consciousness speaks of black and coloured flags of a just nation. It seeks for one with the seed to descend the order of deceased freedom fighters.
Words will be weapons and discipline the shield. A voice of wisdom will doubt heal. The consciousness keeps on knocking, let it in and start living.

It was found in conversation when elements of power that exude intellect, tolerance, patience and wisdom were expressed. She came with a transparent dress and appealing to liberals and democrats. Appealing to flyers of the freedom and justice flag. She had milk in her humungous and luscious breasts; to breastfeed a nation of lost children. Her name was the subject. Her name is consciousness.















Findings…



That spark will shine again. In day will come a knight, he not in the dark. Kindle like candle. Vivify, amplify and fill the vivid views of virgin void. There is in howl a cry. Deliverance will be blinding, it will sparkle and boil. Like ashes' dispatch and birds on drill, sparks will fly. I still believe in the dream for the roads are streams to help flourish and swim after rocks break free and waters gush like mean power of steam... Observe and preserve the delicate esteem.

Fantastical dimensions you dissect and what the fantasy depicts. The entrance hard, penetration harsh. Soften it does the touch. Bare in belly room for crush and area for the hunger for feelings that are lush. You then conceive of the swashbuckling wash.

I've learnt to row thoughts but got caught by lines of constraints. Ties that aim to abort a dynamic mentality, they claim to distort. Easy am I, I've always had restraint. But then the scent of the misty blue makes me faint. I wake up, where are the pictures I'd paint? have I left behind things I'd find forth.

It's like going in circles, it's nauseating like the slut colour purple. Still there's light no matter how deep grounds fight to break, waters will remain. We wise open her thighs of narrow and conclude not to generalize anything... For the confines of constraints are being bored with corruption and destruction.

What beauty is war when the vestige of art reminds us of art being romantic. They the freaks _ yes the high egotistical men who get ecstatic watching bodies die like ants. How tall are they when the short could wear their pants.

Cowardice is vice when you receive advice from fools who think like mice. Tear these walls down and put them to size. There's nudity in store, a revolutionary revelation revealing the revived feel of heaven - revisited.

Why you fools remain behind like butts, yes buttocks makes my heart lock. With these slippery orgasmic flowing rhythms like stimulating syrups, how can the curves be blocked. But the brave must have no heart.

What is a heart if it doesn't beat you up? When on hills marching you find them waiting to give you creditable merit and thanks for life excelled as all should live it. Do you remain calm when God reaches out and carries you in His palm? Well then you have seen my face, that feeling for embrace should soon abate then self-eradicate.









His Presence



The feast of the day. The good things: bright and beautiful on display. Angels hearing the call, tolling, ringing the bells. Creatures are shy and casting on humans spells.

Spells that spell how we should dwell, knowledge and wisdom. It's His presence though that they bow to.

It's the call to order that should one day sound that the world is out of order.

He comes as always there and flashes His flair.

Teaching the masses how to be humane. Teaching the masses how to fight for freedom.

Educating the masses about the price of freedom. It's His presence that is in the air we breathe.

It's His voice in the message of word when we speak. It is He who breathes lives so we can be. His presence in the rays of the sun only to show that He is watching over you.

The clouds showing you the heaven that is above you. Talents and character showing you the power that is within you.

Revealing populations of different races to show off the diversity and humanity around you.

The presence on the day compressed in the air we breathe, such when we say love is in the air. The ability to be able and capable of being the master of you.

The fear and awe by which we were made to conclude that we are true. It's His presence that enhances my munificence when I excel and feel significant. Significant and perfectly imperfect.

It gives me consciousness. It gives me meaning beyond all reason. I feel His presence and with the breath of life, levitation and loping of soul and beating of heart; I know that I am. I know that I am man and a spirit more than that.



















Home



It was as tender as dust, it enforced trust. It was whole, it was rough the love she had. The trees chattered, it was a breeze, the sun was glad. She comforted me and embraced me with love. Home, she was heaven, she led us to grow as men. It was colourful as it was dull. I believed it to be a never-ending story but all null. They were mysterious at times; the scenes in sight.

Home delivered us and guided the paths in which we dwelled. There are memories of a mountain and much stories to tell. The hot summer days when we gathered and cheered. The shortcomings and tragedies when we shed tears. The momentum that kept conception of moments throughout the years. It was fair when everybody was there and each one cared.

The trust and belief that there is one reliable to give a helping hand. The comfort of mother to embrace and wounds mend. The stance of father to sound the equation of solving the sum of all fears. The growth and prudence of brother to reflect the sentiments he shared.

Home was an outlet for good things, love, healing, learning and things as such.

There was a song on play, it was beautiful music, God was the lyricist and composer, the angels vocalists and the saints played in the band.

Our house was the stage in which the music was displayed. We were the audience present to appreciate.

On the reminisce, I sit alone and think to myself about the animated and vivid encounters. It is on the other side brighter, if we believe in the power of man, we should find home again. Head of man be God and there'll be peace and love a lots. Home was a palace, there would be a few to state that it was the likes of reformed Rome.

Heart is home, home is where the heart is, where my mind lies, I do not know. I like myself an altar server holding a candle, kindling the way. I stand believing that we will soon be receiving and there will be undying hope. Let us stand not doubt as we go home.











Land of The Lost



A dark and sharp blue night. It's cold and coarse, all a fright

Where it seems like the release of the vicious frosts

It's deep but void, hard and injurious floors, it's the land of the lost

Cries are everywhere

There are shouts of discomfort that come from anywhere

Children know not home or how it feels to have a family and feel warm

They are crippled and they grow no more. Hate and wayward ways are all they have in store

It's sad and they have lost hope

They seek new beginning and yearn for a cleansing storm. Bullies feed on the weak that mope

Dreams are shattered and identities lost. It was lost at the bet when life was wagered and the coin tossed

They go in circles but only to burn more

They walk for days without rest

They're made to believe that this is their fate and not some test

They have gone blind from all the sour waters that have gushed from their eyes. They lost the battle, it is theirs; demise

They have breath for survival and long for redemption

The land of the lost, the children there wait for the brightness of the sun. They should assemble and form an indomitable entourage

Should they succeed to become one, the war is theirs and they have won.















Let Love



We are quick to fight but reluctant to unite

Make love not war

Make her smile not cry

Make love not lust

We are happy to screw but not proud to romantically woo

Make love not war We quickly chuckle when one farts

But that is when we forget that all things breathe

When time is old, you have to let go

Make love not war



We are quick to judge but stubborn to appreciate

We do not accept each other's flaws and therefore we are poor

Make love not war We forget that in woman man is redeemed

We found the world in ruins but who will heal these walls?

Woman is vengeful filled with fury angry, for man mistreated her in the past

We have to make new way and let the solid hate burn to dust

Treat woman with love, respect and honour

This way our grandsons and granddaughters will have something when we are gone

We have to be the change a generation that twists fate

Where our fate is catastrophe let it be glorious and godly victory



Make love not war

Speak peace not havoc

Build, do not destroy

Make love not war



We are wayward for we have lost identity

We need to go through manure to find our destiny

We build our own prisonsWe have lost sense of freedom

We need to remember or discover why we are

We need to look at our conscience and make it conscious

We need to remember who we are

We need to feed the world truth, grace, love and purity

We will then have conceived a world not melancholy

A garden of success and a fortress of purpose and prosperity



Make love not war

Believe in a dream even if you are poor

Though you are torn, feel the warmth of the world and feel at home

Let love and make another feel whole

Let love and your soul will have been born.





Flow



How do you know? No way just the means of flow. Where do we go? Nowhere just a place to which winds blow us then home we'll know. Flow, sweep and swipe, the air keeps us going, the smoke dances, the rhythms flow.

Here we go, on what are we walking, the wheels just seem to roll. We fly we'll float, we'll know, slowly row, we'll be sailors on the love boat. Strings are here so the kind woman can threads sew. Strings here so the weeper can play a guitar, then we can sing, cry then cheer. You shed a tear. The temperature rose and the body gushed fluids of poise, pain and tear.

Flow, marching like a warrior, the dust forms an air-foam. In the mist it is flow that enables one to strike a sword. It is the seed and root of the strength of thrust. Breathe you must, there is between existence and nature a sacred trust. Flow, said the boxing coach when directing blows. Flow, inspired the athlete when he believed it's all ebb-and-flow. The continuum next to rhythm. The sensation within the rhyme. The trigger to express desire. A lot in sense, reason and relation, all connection kindles the fire. The flow that influences the curl in toe. The flow that excites the twisting spine of a woman fine, ready to dine and rotate as she feels the edge in her belly then anticipates feelings to intertwine.

Spirits conclude there is one divine. There is mystery in intersection and wine. There is a power as a mother that holds it all together. There is one watching and playing the music no matter the weather. There is something angelic about animals that have fur and feathers. Flow, reminding us how stone and bone all come from earth. Reminding how the coming of woman enabled the becoming of birth.

As I rhyme and the rhythms do not die I remember that flow is alive.





Renaissance Man



It is close to being headless, to be without a father
and how and where do we investigate who or what the responsible force 
is?...
It is simply a recurring method, divide and rule
Here in the matrix you have black, brown, white and yellow races
in some places not made famous you have orange and red and blue races
So what is colour? The texture of light perhaps

So then, what is black?



Nothing, void. So then how does one refer to a whole race as nothing?

it's really simple, where there is nothing there has to be something

so the something is revered and valued as significant

and what about the nothing? Well the nothing will be made to serve the 
something
But was is not from the void that worlds were created? From thought, now
thought an important factor for the nothing would be denigrated to such
an extent as to not be able to think
so from this comes an inferior race and a supercilious race
Not to blame the supercilious race for it too was manipulated into 
having high esteem -
so where are the parents?

You find a black and a white wrestling unconscious of the fact that they 
could consciously be cousins
In simple terms, if we are all Light then we stem from the same tree
however with polarization or duality find we lower degree
and this state imprisons us to hate one another for one reason or the 
other

And it is within memory that black and white races have been fighting 
for millennia
With this, both races would boast a pride and a willingness to defend 
one's culture at all costs
But then as children when do we grow and gather the gods in one room to 
hear their views and differences?
When will we rise above demographics to save the human race?
and beyond other races being exploited throughout the galaxies
What would we learn if these members of Councils and Houses were 
gathered in one room?
Would we learn that this universe is not perfect?
But then what is perfection?
Hypothetically, an idea of supremacy and completeness which sets the 
standards that all things and people should conform to... That is, as 
far as the powers  define

It is a responsibility to search within our hearts for what is true and eternal
It is a choice we make to be continually affected by the sicknesses of society
It is a voluntary action to uplift the houses that govern however sincere and well-meaning they may appear
however promises are never kept and human beings taken for granted
It is a soul's obligation to yearn for its liberty such that we too, as Ascended Masters, can graduate and become Renaissance Man.


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