Against the backdrop of a global catastrophe
witness us busying to fix the natural damage
heavily wrought
an endeavour in itself,
which ought to warrant respect
and the gift of time and patience

Our blood and sweat
a human resource
gladly spent to rebuild the detriment,
but not at any cost
not kamikaze squadrons
dashed upon the decks of a false progress

For each of us as batteries
are finite
and our spark will drain,
our light will die
unless the blinkered
see that trying is enough
for now

When foundations are rebuilt, safe
and feet feel steady
we will readily head skywards again

when another day is ****** again
red heavens collapse over your head
cause devil is staring at you
while you're rushing to the subway

doomed to catch it, morning strugglez
you and your people are in distress
good friends died and they keep dying
life was, is and remains a battle field

you awoke because of hunger and curiosity
which kind of dream was that? pushing tons
residing in a snowwhite castle, no stains
yachts across, attitude like klitschkos

reality bites: your inner voice is calling you
take a shower! eat! go to work and prosper!
in truth you work for hard-hearted vultures
wearing suits, spreading lies, for sure

you have to sell tv sets via phone
****** payment, no insurance, usa-flava
but you bust your *** for it, still unable
to buy new sneakers for your daughter

all second hand, so at school she is being mobbed
they steal her dignity, beat her up, she's twelve
eight o'clock in the morning, and she is moaning
swollen rips, hair teared out, a broken jawbone

no school mate is helping her, ambulance and sirens
your daughter faints, as you're rushing to the hospital
and when you see her abused, you decide to take vengeance
the night is red, heavens collapse over your head

devil is no more staring, you and him take action
you buy a weapon, 40 cal, bleeding anger, danger
but you won't turn back, never acting like a coward
in the park, near the river, you can find them ******* sitting

loading the gun, slowly moving, avoid any sound
the rest is history, your story, never feeling sorry

Working for my dream, I started to forget what I'm working for and what I'm fighting for.

I sit in the AC chilled waiting room,
Holding minor achievements and qualifications in my portfolio,

nerves tightening, throat shutting, heart racing, panicking as i sit
still.

You call out my name so softly, I feel bloodless as I approach with a warmed smile; though you are lofty you smile back with a similar manner.

I hand you my book of tombs, and you inquire as you skim over the pages of listed names,  we exchange smiles again as I depart.
Surely I got the part, the role in the play.

I show my eagerness and return soon there after, ask the question.
"Did I get the job?"
You stop smiling, why, why, why did you stop?

I see her approach behind from your doors, my back straightens, stiffened in your wake.  My skin more chilled then the AC.
And all I can think,
****
****
****

"48% nerd
27% band geek
15% broseph
6% grandpa
4% lesbian"


"That's some odd stuff man.
I usually just look up 'Blondes."

In the rituals
of the life of struggle,
they work the blue collar jobs
of their parents-
grilled cheese, fries,
a shitbox used car,
scratch tickets duds,
so many of no frills,
so many barely getting by.