You always preached
about burning bridges.
Voice laced with warning.
But here I stand.
A handful of matches
and gasoline.
With my chin held
high.
Ready to reduce you
to ash.

From the patriotic song--verses 4 and 5, followed by three of my own verses:

   * Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:
    All their attempts to bend thee down,
    Will but arouse thy generous flame;
    But work their woe, and thy renown.

    "Rule, Britannia! rule the waves:
    "Britons never will be slaves."

    To thee belongs the rural reign;
    Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
    All thine shall be the subject main,
    And every shore it circles thine.

    "Rule, Britannia! rule the waves:
    "Britons never will be slaves." *

When the international banks decree
that commerce belongs to them, not thee,
thou wilt arise and set things straight
and take back thy rightful fate.

When Brussels, and Germany insist
that immigrants from every shore
should find a home inside your door
(despite the people's cry--"No more!)
you quietly vote to resist.

What fire will flame from Britain's spark?
The division has been now made stark:
On one side, the elite's intent--
the other way, the people went.

i've been looking for
a thrill lately.
not the roller coaster riding, sneaking out
at two in the morning type of thrill, but
the type of thrill that evokes enough
curiosity to make rebellion
look like nothing.  
i'm talking about
the thrill that makes you want
so much more than what you are given,
so you avidly seek out
the unknown in hopes of
having the taste of adrenaline on your lips.

I am intrigued by dancers
The body in motion
Weaving through whatever
Medium strikes its composer

Something in its freedom
Strikes rebellion within
To bind their liberation
Illustrating instead in phrases

I don't feel guilty
About my compulsions
Paper shackles and bars of ink
Slaves to the labor of expression

angry teens
rebelling agains the streams
trying to find them self
in a world where nothing make sense

This is the word whose cries echoes in the well of my soul.
A desperate calling in the darkness overcome with hopelessness.
A pleading of defiance against all that has been done un-rightly so.
The last sound of innocence and its unheard scream in the night.
Its last word being rejection of the world's cruelties.

No.

The man who lives in a mailbox
Sings his song alone
The rent he says is reasonable
And he likes the tone.

He sings:
I possess but what I have
That time does not remove.
All the castles all the kings
Are never here alone.
Brave parades and cheerful tunes
Do not the truth disprove.
We are each a single soul
And never here alone.
Never here alone.

His song is sung to passersby
Always much surprised
To pass a mailbox, hear a song
Coming from inside.

He sings:
I possess but what I have
That time does not remove.
All the castles all the kings
Are never here alone.
Brave parades and cheerful tunes
Do not the truth disprove.
We are each a single soul
And never here alone.
Never here alone.

Now, some protest, they say he’s mad
They tell him he is wrong
And some ignore his choice of home
And listen to his song.

He sings:
I possess but what I have
That time does not remove.
All the castles all the kings
Are never here alone.
Brave parades and cheerful tunes
Do not the truth disprove.
We are each a single soul
And never here alone.
Never here alone.