AD21//Day 7 out of 25

Back then, psychoanalysts would make their clients make poems in order to analyze their psychological conditions. This was during the times of Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud, the pioneers of the Psychoanalytical branch of psychology. However, when you write with no other prompt to guide you but the continuous stream of consciousness, your inner voice may stop talking out loud, and start singing instead.

Songs Filtered by the word: Moth

Na:
You belong to the eastern road
You belong where the sun herds on the dawnlight
Perpetrator of circumstance
How many moons will it take to hound you?

You are marked by the crimson sea
Every shrub you touch will come to fear you
You're adored by the unruly
As you yield away your couth allegiance

How many degree celsius does it take
For the lamp to kill the moth

How many degrees celsius does it take
For the lamp to kill the moth

.

.

Holding a wrangling loose concussion
Time gave away its utmost splendor
Silent, the weavers pull you closer
Afraid of what you are
Rrah

Beaded the winged dogs make you grovel
When they feel the pressure of being under
They touch you with their bridled paws
So you feel you understand

Heaven favors the brave one
But humans favor the martyrs
Justice is but vengeance colorized in the brightest yellow
Heaven favors the kind
But humans favor results, not intentions
You favor the naive, therefore you are

As well as the bending moon would follow
Every rule etched on this earth
As much as the middle man would say
That being violent is a cycle of death
Yes, you will see reflections
But the mirror could not touch you
What is there to be afraid of?
What is there , you say, you ask?
And then everything collapses
Rrah

Ah, a command alone will not
Ensure every living being
Will follow in exchange of
Safety from what they fear
Safety from the burning of the fire

Ah, a wish granted's not enough
For the self-reliant liars
Unafraid of failure, unafraid
Of shame, of knowing punishment won't ever
Ever ever ever ever last, forever
Ever ever ever ever last, forever.

.

.

Here comes the tumbling of the drums,
Imitations of world tremors
Attempts to make a ripple reach the ocean's heart

Here comes the justification
A bomb burned after its mechanical destruction
Be brough back, to b glorified as art

Bring me colors, bring me Rome
Bring me dead things that never did die from the scythe of oblivion
Though their losses they brought waves
Granting fortune itself famine
From fame

Cl:

Both blood and soil run through this light, as it pitter patters afraid of people and more of the night.
Playing dolls until delusional, I baptized my comrades as my wonderland compose me.
How wrong it was

Fools that replicate the ideas which were already done are similar to artificial intelligence, they told me
Creating magnificence without imperfection is the ugliest thing one could have, they said
As humans only love humans

Why, the fire, seems to flickering dimmer than before
Correlated to my deeds, unaware of the science behind it, I suffered for the sake of it going brighter
The weapon of coincidences slays more warriors than a sword,
As violence is hated by those who use it, but logic, according to itself, must be loved by all

In the name of everyone else who strayed from my side to find themselves
I swore to stay the same to be different from you
That the disappointment from seeing me again, seeing me uncured from who I am reminds me of the past you
Also remains unchanged, yet also remains true

And in the name of your activism against every falsehood I still find wonderful
I vow to love the ancient even if they fade into fiction
That knowing you, who wants to change the world, who will burn my libraries and the worst culture in existence
Will still never forget them, even with mockery, even with resilience

Fi:

Favoritism runs through fingertips and eyes that lost all doubt in efforts
Flowing in uneven spots in time, it stays for caution
I realized that deciding to experiment among the exploring swingers that I never needed an outlet for happiness.

The rashness of growth took me in with my freezing bones
It trembled the smile of adversity
Said it, "One day you will leave to plant your own tree, feeding off from what you left behind, including me."

Maybe someone else's afterimage
Glowed in the hour of disgrace, and became gold through endurance
Maybe accepting who I am and who I was
Means to keep fighting change and remain unbudging

Collector of highs, unafraid to be reckless
I swallowed the planet earth in search of a song that I could call my own
Finding my guitar unable to express my recession
They say somebody unwilling to be helped is decaying, but the sights I imagined were enough to live on.

. . .

Under the veil, someone speaks of a prophecy
Somebody knows what it means to be happy
Curious, I lit a fire to enter their tent, and found a grimoire made of experiences and manufactured apathy.

Somewhere along in the travels of a heart-worn man
There was a lantern with notes
Saying the being that does not care has apitude, that his heart is nobody else but his own.

I want to stay by the candlelight, where the matches are enough to calm me
I want to stay as a miscreant, ignorant of the narcissistic truth,
Combing through the records of the acquaintances, it is found that most who were once weak always bloom, that to be born strong is to be born cursed. I saw through the radiance of the rain, saying that unfortunate days must be dropped away, towards the flood-- drowning everyone in what pain you bled out-- mixing with mud, normalizing what should never be.

And so I screamed, without courage in my cords
Having nothing to yield but plain words
I reached toward creatures of apathy
"Believe me, believe me. Though it doesn't matter if you believe me. When I stopped heeding the words of strangers, I found myself genuinely happy."

And so I screamed, without the lungs to carry on
To the edge of my tilted perception
I noticed patterns in affirmations I lived for before
I saw infections in my mind tricking me into thinking I must be cured, replaced, and altered. I heard chirps too conspicuous to be heard and told me to keep composure,and to strip off my clothes, as if they were my symbols of submissiveness, as if I ever wished for freedom.

Tell me, is heeding other peoples' words how to be unaffected
Is in itself letting yourself be influenced?
said someone whose feet limped from disguised moving on, when it meant "Run away"

Tell me, those methods of turning pain into nurture
That rationalizes teaching one through pain,
The truth is an infohazard, yet only truths which aren't painless are proclaimed should be accepted.

I was a moth attracted to being burned by the sun
Thinking that only by scorching my wings I can properly fly
Thinking only by traumatizing myself with the fear of death, I can learn resilience and learn to control not what I can not, now with my wings amputated I can't even get up.

If I follow the course of the river to stability
These vivid emotions will stop dyeing anything
In the brightest of colors, that make painful memories into paintings,
Then I should have told my youth back then I was not fit for stoicism
That my treatment should have been against the current, as we were already proud of our unawareness, our discomfort, ourselves-- of the assimilated us that we were ashamed we would be.