Stuck in a jail cell

"Up and Adam"

You have to obey their rules

Or no basic freedoms. No garden of Eden.

No equality.

No excuses.

They own your space

You wonder why that matters

They suppress your dreams and passions

Yet flaunt the same to aid in their suppression.

Try the limited ways in which you can create or share your visions

Not one person seems to see or enjoy

artistic creations that you have worked with with limited resources to employ.

They wouldn't do this to Picasso
To: Aristotle


However, this is the future.

There you are

Beating all the odds

Your position stays the same

Communications in question

"Why must I always have a forgotten and unknown name?"

There's a hole in the sky where my soul fits in
Did you see it open last night?
It comes and goes when you least expect it

There's a hole in the thoughts of the world leaders
Did you see it on social media last night?
It comes and goes just before the broadcast starts

There's a hole in the socks of the poor
Did you see it on TV this year?
It never goes away

MEANING OF CHRISTMAS. A GOOD CHRISTMAS

Christmas does not only mean: celebration, making merriment nor winning and dining season. It's a lifestyle, A good Christmas implies: salvation, love, liberation, and Christmas mean a lot it's freedom, deliverance. It mean: Sharing with the poor even the less privilege, the lower classes. That's a good Christmas, when you can supply the masses through and on behave of Christ Jesus. Feeding his masses Christmas is albout uniting and making everyone feel loved again even if that once at every year end. That's why Christmas-s and a good Christmas!
#c9_fm

you envy me for my resilience,

but you forget
the way I break harder than needed.

i often wonder;
how lives the poor man.
i noticed him there
by the bridge.

his skin was burnt
by the coarse light of the day;
i gaped as he stood there
in a ragged attire.
i know im not to judge,
but he didnt look too decent.

now, he walked away with his dish.
a coin or two,
he'd receive
if the bountiful felt pity.

i often wonder,
how strives that poor man by the bridge.

beginning:

playing football
in the communal
playground
pitched between
mountains of concrete
brown brick office blocks
blockaded high street shops
council housing kingdoms.

memory;

taking potshots at metal
goalposts slicked with
the rain and scabbed spray paint
till the olders kick us aside
basketballs in hand
for freethrows from the poverty line.

unlearning;

to think
love like marble
too cold and rich to touch
in fear that it’d turn out to be *****
like two boys
looking at each other for too long
can leave stains no amount of febreze can air out.

end;

i still can’t sleep in your arms
but you never stop searching for me
in yours
all there is left to do
is let
myself be found.

My theory was written on the other side of town.
Eyes that had only watched the world through
a single pane of glass, found reflections all round.
Where I used to see grey, crisp formations of cloud.
Even in the house, blocks of door painted one colour
were replaced with dreamlike figures cutting cake.

Anyway, yesterday a man wearing a Union Jack
flag on his waist and sleeve told me his worries.
Five or six cars parked, eight or nine bedrooms
lying cold and lonely while in the south of France.
To lose count of the windows in one's life, I thought,
as he asked me about the proletariat. Luxury indeed.