Make America **** again
Treating children like meat
The hand on the mouth as they choke
The millions of witnesses who cope
The massacre well known, numb
Worse again but old,
Let it hold...

No place to call home...
Make America **** again
**** for gold, for lead
A stolen broken bed, no thread to their reason other than fed...

Federal monsters fed like youngsters
Yawning with ease...
The libraries of histories they choose to seize and sever...

Until there’s nothing and no trees
Just baron land and bullies and destructive weather...

Make America **** again, and again, and again... until the pain becomes pointless and the world lets it be, and brainwashed beserckists sizzle like beef...

“Spoon feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.”
E. M. Forster

There was no spoon feeding life to me,
gentle nibbles from a mind set on
sugar coating there would be more
days of blackberry thorned hours than sweet pudding.

How does one speak of horror
to a child who trusts fairytales
grow reality from glittered imaginations?

I learned so very young monsters
don’t leave when a storybook presses
them between its pages…They stalk you
at dinner tables, in empty rooms,
within the sound of voices oblivious
to screams trapped in the cage of your throat.

In the oddity of breathing terror circumstances turned
me comedian, precocious child full of questions,
a crybaby at scratches while silent in the clutches
of a demon.

In the etiquette of spoons never judge
the one who doesn’t hold it correctly.
She may be a survivor who’d rather
eat the soup than explain why she
doesn’t have an affinity for shallow silver.

They called Kierkegaard insane,
poor man, poor fool..
ink turned against him
by a city that feared
his furious clarity.

That label is given still:
“mad,” they say,
when a voice rises
against the hidden thing,
the shadow crouched in the soul,
the beast that feeds on silence.

It is not flesh that is cursed,
but the fortress
built stone by stone
from secrets unspoken,
where the child’s cry was buried
and the monster kept the key.

Yes, let it be cursed again..
that ancient predator
that left spirits trapped,
that tried to leave others
shattered in its claws.

If eternity should open,
even the darkness of God
would rise against it,
tumbling the beast
through endless years,
stripped of its power,
stripped of its stolen faces.

Call it madness,
call it folly.
The words remain jagged,
for truth has teeth,
and silence has killed enough.

At least the monster was named
when others smiled politely
and called it “past.”
At least there was no collusion.

And if the witness is written off,
    so be it

   Better condemned
   for fighting the beast
   than praised for leaving it
   enthroned.

Some times I feel like
A villain on the power rangers
So out of control that I cannot help but feel like I am a monstrous Ramage
As I walk around I feel like a *******
Of a disaster and I seem to cause
The chaos but I could not be anything
But  a gifted mess and that is walking around.  Though this I say
Even cryptids seem to have more
Control over their ******* emotions.
I am just talking out of my emotions
Or there is water to what I say.  I
Find that I have to fond away to deal with
The green eyed monster and combat it.
Though it is ******* hard at times.
As I feel like an exploding balloon i feel nothing  but  chaos of wanting to pop.
This idea that there someone  out there for everyone obviously
Never met
Me

Impatient fear— drawn like breath toward a love-sickness
too familiar; where even longing feels rehearsed.
Still, we wait. Too patient, perhaps, for the One who
might finally make us two.

But how many hearts have crowded this same dream?
How many lips have whispered their forever's into ears already
echoing with empty promises? Love, the great alien—always
arriving in disguise during first encounters, glimmering strange
and radiant, only to rot sweetly in the mouth after the kiss turns
to memory.

We taste the ache, to call it devotion...
We call the wound a lesson.

But what of those—the occasional monsters; who no longer
apologize for the shape of their hunger, who wear their
shadows like a second skin, not in shame, but in acceptance?
And what of the world, when two such creatures find each other?
When neither runs, neither flinches—when their broken pieces
match like puzzle scars?

Do we call it love then, or chaos? Do we fear what is born from
the ashes of their embrace— or envy it? Because when two
monsters fall in love, they do not tame each other. They make
a home of their fire. And the world, remains forever obsessed
with perfect edges, that it will never understand—how beautiful
the burn can be.

Only then, do you and I finally feel free.

No more Monsters,
Sorry RedBull but you lost my brand loyalty.
I will no longer be drinking tartine,
All this caffeine makes me forget,
It causes problems with my life and love.
So I'll save my pennies,
To afford a moment of clarity.

Where is Elliot?
Where are the moderators?
How come Truth and others,
Work in plain sight,
It's so obvious, we all know.
Somebody must deliver the killing blow,
Who will slay these monsters?
I have not the power alone,
But I have a will to dethrone these evils,
And make art safe again.