Tyrant - Holx I (2010) (C.R.E.M.) (mixtape)
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Holx I : The Mixtape & Trilogy
Holx II : Sol Y Air Be Caedo CE
Holx III : O Degreez
In dieing alone, we see where we will not see.
Where was why, when I was here. & so was this story. When here is now, you know an old one… & here you are. Ready to live.
Music so, and music unending.
Its . is its beginning. Its power is its word. Its missing you and its missing myself and our love but let the end start where beginnings have no laughter and rapture is non. And rapture is on. And rapture is my captor of so many far out ways to say I am
Well ol, don’t we know??? Because the poet eternal lies rest and will be rested. Think of my initial question and ask yourself what power may lie where music unending is only music to ears of the dead.
Love your words, for more books are written. Let it so, and let it be
For words of your love are ones written in pamphlets enshrouded from inquisition, shrouded from quiet poetry.
We love our questions as for our poets life??? We love too. And so many may many may hear the winds whisper, before the winds whisper may become its own name unspoken for lifetimes for the lustful touch we battle to let go, the lustful touch of love that comes only…
In the winds whisper.
Natural reality, my insanity.
My love, unspeakably trusted. My love is not where, was not when, was not here, was nothing to the very end.
Because, my friends my loyal trusty men, man among and mad along these lines… these long so happily trusty lines…
These long so maddening poetries of unwhispered ears. Are our reason to speak myself. Now. And with so much that family untrusted, family unwhispered, will wonder… will… a name unwhispered by the thunders that brought wind.
For no reasons exist for ourselves so pure to ever end.
My poetry, my man, you are myself. You are words. But of no end.
Nothing more to say... but my loves are winds, and let them whisper silently. Words
Life is beautiful, but jokers are as good as we portray, always. & I love my death, as I breathe the sigh, the eternal sigh that lives is only I my art imitating my beautiful life. & let the jokes begin. & I sigh & I die. & Yes. It was always my art of joking that showed my how to sigh & as I die, you'll joke, but know I would have loved to do it more. For am I not that poet that was poetry in the end? & The beginning, it was dieing alone, & it is I, & I speak poetry for what other reasons that joke? For poems to be written... For my life to be known. For my love of myself to be as simple as my love of poetry. My love of life has begun... My love of life... is yet entertainment. of all.
love those that see when open eyes born.
we too, pickin our flames in the darkness...
hear breath and light of life.
loving wisdom endures the life it endures the pledge
here we do endure when times said begin when things are
what are they as the same times, when same times rebegin...
for what else than the master of minds that push the furthest
to pursuit
of eyes ancient grow anew on new light
... for see we too who inhabits in the same light...
that which is our ultimate disguise.. oh, what an ultimate villain
unknown as the inconquerable.
no purer than all inaffected, that which we seek to pursue.
think what you know for out the mind of which you speak is a touch away
and yet so inescapable that pure must be first accepted to know the touch away.. the touch away...
and know that while love exists from out endured times, we know that love, my friend, my prospect may indeed continue its search... it is the essence of the thing at touch. the touch of learning.
while we know that many lives begin, many lives will too know the middle path to the touch of the innattainable... the ultimate clutch of one's last grip to its grave... that which said loves though endures. for pure is the love of the searcher itself. the searcher's everinquisitive eye... when watched by its pureness said so know of a reality so that it knows its mindeye... the breath of air it leaves as simple as time...
the remembered, the fallen, that high beacon echoed too, and then we see how mighty we have fallen to want to grow to be that head set high beacon that echoed and too.
when we know... the love is all of the pureness of the seconds, where we begin to know that outsearched are of loves their own. so that is the echoe of resonance. trueness through action is art.
let us love..
-Twyll The ChyllTyrant (2010)
Every very dark ending, has a musical interlude...
Introducing the mixtape experience of a lifetime...
The Battle MC... Tyrant.
Holx
A Collection of Ghoulish Sounds From Past & Present Hip Hop...
"The Crooked Empire - A Name?"
PYZ
Holx II : Sol Y Air Be Caedo CE
Holx III : O Degreez
In dieing alone, we see where we will not see.
Where was why, when I was here. & so was this story. When here is now, you know an old one… & here you are. Ready to live.
Music so, and music unending.
Its . is its beginning. Its power is its word. Its missing you and its missing myself and our love but let the end start where beginnings have no laughter and rapture is non. And rapture is on. And rapture is my captor of so many far out ways to say I am
Well ol, don’t we know??? Because the poet eternal lies rest and will be rested. Think of my initial question and ask yourself what power may lie where music unending is only music to ears of the dead.
Love your words, for more books are written. Let it so, and let it be
For words of your love are ones written in pamphlets enshrouded from inquisition, shrouded from quiet poetry.
We love our questions as for our poets life??? We love too. And so many may many may hear the winds whisper, before the winds whisper may become its own name unspoken for lifetimes for the lustful touch we battle to let go, the lustful touch of love that comes only…
In the winds whisper.
Natural reality, my insanity.
My love, unspeakably trusted. My love is not where, was not when, was not here, was nothing to the very end.
Because, my friends my loyal trusty men, man among and mad along these lines… these long so happily trusty lines…
These long so maddening poetries of unwhispered ears. Are our reason to speak myself. Now. And with so much that family untrusted, family unwhispered, will wonder… will… a name unwhispered by the thunders that brought wind.
For no reasons exist for ourselves so pure to ever end.
My poetry, my man, you are myself. You are words. But of no end.
Nothing more to say... but my loves are winds, and let them whisper silently. Words
Life is beautiful, but jokers are as good as we portray, always. & I love my death, as I breathe the sigh, the eternal sigh that lives is only I my art imitating my beautiful life. & let the jokes begin. & I sigh & I die. & Yes. It was always my art of joking that showed my how to sigh & as I die, you'll joke, but know I would have loved to do it more. For am I not that poet that was poetry in the end? & The beginning, it was dieing alone, & it is I, & I speak poetry for what other reasons that joke? For poems to be written... For my life to be known. For my love of myself to be as simple as my love of poetry. My love of life has begun... My love of life... is yet entertainment. of all.
love those that see when open eyes born.
we too, pickin our flames in the darkness...
hear breath and light of life.
loving wisdom endures the life it endures the pledge
here we do endure when times said begin when things are
what are they as the same times, when same times rebegin...
for what else than the master of minds that push the furthest
to pursuit
of eyes ancient grow anew on new light
... for see we too who inhabits in the same light...
that which is our ultimate disguise.. oh, what an ultimate villain
unknown as the inconquerable.
no purer than all inaffected, that which we seek to pursue.
think what you know for out the mind of which you speak is a touch away
and yet so inescapable that pure must be first accepted to know the touch away.. the touch away...
and know that while love exists from out endured times, we know that love, my friend, my prospect may indeed continue its search... it is the essence of the thing at touch. the touch of learning.
while we know that many lives begin, many lives will too know the middle path to the touch of the innattainable... the ultimate clutch of one's last grip to its grave... that which said loves though endures. for pure is the love of the searcher itself. the searcher's everinquisitive eye... when watched by its pureness said so know of a reality so that it knows its mindeye... the breath of air it leaves as simple as time...
the remembered, the fallen, that high beacon echoed too, and then we see how mighty we have fallen to want to grow to be that head set high beacon that echoed and too.
when we know... the love is all of the pureness of the seconds, where we begin to know that outsearched are of loves their own. so that is the echoe of resonance. trueness through action is art.
let us love..
-Twyll The ChyllTyrant (2010)
Every very dark ending, has a musical interlude...
Introducing the mixtape experience of a lifetime...
The Battle MC... Tyrant.
Holx
A Collection of Ghoulish Sounds From Past & Present Hip Hop...
"The Crooked Empire - A Name?"
PYZ
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