Lori Bergman

My soul.... it's an open book. I've placed it on a shelf in your favorite nook, although my misgivings shall be mistook, I know my whispers will be the hook. For if all I have left are captured words, in leather bound... The least I could do is leave you shook.
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After the parade.........

I never let another man wearing a dress walk past me....
Continuing to breathe..
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Joe's wife is a Shrill
A Jagged Blue pill
If she doesn't scare you
No evil thing will
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We're going down to DC,
we're gonna Qill a Nazi.
Them demons want insanity,
we'll give it momentarily.
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Twatter is nothing but a pedophile circle jerk.
Bunch of transsexual mongers high on perk.
Showing off of their fake bits & pieces begging for attention through thesis, it's the Democratic mouthpiece, the LIE machine.
A transhumanism temple made of Ice where people go searching for cold approval. A cultist endeavor no need for removal.
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Suspended
Illuminating my
Ghostly aura of you
Halo shimmering
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Pull my soul into the spirit well...
In all it's infinite glory
Comprised of millions of slivers of brokenness.
Yet somehow whole...
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Right as the rain as it falls on my window pane.
The tick tick on a tin roof... sure to make even the soundest mind insane.
Cold. Wet and dreary...
To bask in it... most leery.
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The ego maniacal are ruining our world. Elites sufficing off the backs of the meek. One takes a giant leap. Inadvertent, creating fodder within the sheep. Entertainments to keep them idle. It starts with a gleam. Pacification. It's foundation lies with an artist's dream. Within a Hollywood less than clean. What they say and do after the ascent. Speaks volumes better than any hint. Many have talents. Fully Baked. Some of us just keep ours from being raked. In every sense of the word stardom maybe engineered, but it can't be faked. In the end we're all just trying to fill our plate. No one promised a fair slate. When it comes to fame some of us never pick our date. But it is never too late. Until then congratulations on reaching your fate.
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Ignominy is of no reward,
it is in your yearning for greatness
that your heart is truly measured.
Fear not chagrin, stagnant in icy vacillation.
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Life.... When does it begin?
Oh contraire, monami when does it end?
Really fast or really slow?
Don't rightly know...
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Check yo Spirit.. that's is,
if you expect me to go near it..
The dark? I don't fear it.
My energies repelling unclean entity's, for centuries
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It's no longer dark, though.. not when the only light left... Sits buried in chest, within so few. That part you can't get over. Sadly, we can't see our own light, so things are just this ominous gray blue.
Unbeknownst to who, the eyes of another always hold true. This world. It resembles darkness but feels somewhat new. Like how a lie rolls off the tongue when you know it be not true. It's just an illusion though, so different from that perfect scenario. So fleeting. Practically Dissolved. Never really existed. Take a look around everything's just so estuarine. Captiv-ating. Isn't it? By definition it holds us so. By design? Most certainly. Captive to some nefarious plan. Of some Women, some Man. Taken aback by my willingness to submit and... yet the undeniable urge to run carelessly into the flames to be devored in fight. Excuse my plight. What journey do thou speak of? There are no castles in the sky! Truth must merit some osspicions, but never resemble the lie. Must this be sane, or is it all in vain?
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Art has layers much like love, hate, envy, ego, and even joy. It's translucent. From the moment of it's creation, it poses a question. It has endless possibilities to transform into anything the viewers make of it. It's Potential. Personalized even though it came from its own root site. It has an ebb and flow like any system. Yet it has freedom that can never be taken from it... Oh to be Art.
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Swollen tongue frothy rot,
half-truth speaks yet is not..
It's full of turmoil, maggot frot...
Drooling mouth and bloodshot eyes..
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