What you can’t tell by looking at me…
is that i wish you could see what i see
but because you don’t you go ahead and without thinking twice,
you point the finger of judgement at me
and through your eyes you think of me as a criminal, illegal, poor
you don’t even question what is deeper inside besides the color of my skin

I wish you could see how much this hurts me
because maybe this isn’t your fault
that you were brought up to see corruption, drugs, violence
but listen to me, and trust me that there is another world out there
one story, one you have yet to hear
and i hope you find some way to appreciate it
until you feel the pain from our struggle
to make you think any different.
make you think I am not less than you

There are so many things you cannot see
this is my culture, soy hispana y orgullosa
and these are my people
my people, who are more than you think they are
for they are doctors, innovators, mathematicians, even scientists
you see, there are many things you have not seen, this is only the beginning

My people struggle for strength
nunca te dejes vencer, porque el triunfo puede estar de la esquina as my mother tells me
because pride is what keeps our will to fight going
it is what makes us want to make a change, una cambio
change your perception from rapists, homeless and corrupt
to normal everyday people
….
i hope one day you are able to see past the color of my skin
and to accept what is there
to know that we are not criminals, or crazed animals than what you set us out to be
no, we are more than that
we are human beings… just like you

I scribble on
With a half lobotomy;
A radar seeking Hell by looking up
And another dictionary
From another time and place;
An alternate timeline
Reaching right and left
As well as fore and aft;
The beard of a ******
And naïveté too;
Undiscovered depths of emotional manipulation
Unseeing, unthinking,
A new old structural familiarity
To abduct and probe
The time-honored, vacuum-sealed
Ineptitude of ideology
Whose meat is sweet
But suits the skeletons of standardized educational theories
Like a pair of jeans at age eleven that you expect to grow into;
In hope of justifying
Overuse of monetary resource
For the sake of bonus states of mind;
Scouring the depths of discarded everything
With hooks catching on to all the similarly forgotten names
Who live in fear of obscurity
Clinging, not unlike insects
To their sixteenth minute of fame;
Finding in myself no way but out
To understand that which lives inside;
With disregard for any thread which weaves past me and takes no hold,
And loathing for the ones that do but unravel before the eyes;
Lightheaded, ending any sense of continuity
When, prostrate in the comfort of another tapestry
I stand abruptly, let my dreams be drained from me through tendrils
Like the passing of a temporal existence;
Drinking in the dust and glue of crowded bookshops
In fear of losing inspiration
To the insatiable jaws of my consumerist natural state;
Rummaging in a bargain bin
In search of someone to tell me, “Stop!"
With heads in clouds and bodies in ice trays,
Stealing lines of logic and lyric,
Throwing down and hacking into
Elemental bits which fit into my own vernacular
Sacrificing beauty for originality and vice versa;
Choosing idols idly with the tides
Of knowledge and of art
Rising and falling without fail
Never apparent and never blurred by motion;
Searching for a style like an odd-numbered jean size;
Finding greater inspiration in waves of unopened mysteries;
Following examples laid by unsuccessful fictions;
Learning ethics only from the prologues of ****** novels,
Unsuspecting victims snuffed in interesting and lurid ways;
Letting technological distraction detract from the projections of psychological complexity
Which I, from atop the high horse of my own pretensions
Pretended to embrace;
Committing massive acts of thievery, fraud, and infinite lethargy
For the sake of juvenile, illegitimate art forms;
Seeking other seekers who exist autonomously
For the sake of personal independent credibility;
Leading unsuspecting, overreaching, overeating, understanding, undemanding,
Too forgiving, not forgetting,
Victims of domestic warfare
To a loveless watery grave
For the sake of my own loneliness;
Patronizing every segregated buffet
With courage enough only for a small taste of everything;
With the flavors of the day swirling around
For me to shoot them down
And pin their carcasses to elementary school walls
And Mormon tool sheds
And nature centers
And all the forgotten places of summers past
In the hope of rediscovering
Some old buried treasure
Be it wondrous or worthless;
With the uneasy insincerity of a rodent who pretends to understand a city;
With adopted methods
And repeated thoughts
And ideas which came to me in waking dreams of my own retirement;
Sharing, for a captive audience,
The formidable giants which
Inform our common denominator
Searching through myself for only the most indecipherable
With the fear of being understood
And the fear of being ridiculed
And pretensions of some preternatural predetermination for greatness;
With acceptance of predisposition for obscurity,
The cost of the inundation of the new airwaves.
The series of tubes that feed us intravenously
With information, information, information,
Having killed God and left material validation in His wake;
It could be that new gods are born in the minds of the innovators,
Those wonderfully wealthy
Whose social structuralism
Was a beacon to us all;
In the darkness of an architectural anomaly
Where lights extinguish as my body lies dormant
Alone and abandoned
Only by my own subversion;
Confined ever to a convolution of passages
While above me all my peers still carry on;
Overstaying welcomes
And letting emotionality
Color conversation
A sicklier green,
A green of a tree only just sprouted,
A green of a new recruit,
A green of an inexperienced schoolboy
Faced with the daunting and timeless act
Of copulation;
Somehow taking in the sights and sounds and smells
Of advanced mathematics
Even occupied, as I am,
With explaining my actions
Most eloquently;
Devoting myself to another cause,
Another, another, another
Always relaxing my grip by losing focus;
Desperately hoping not to let my fellow travelers
Lose their innocence
While I reluctantly, dogmatically
Keep mine on a leash;
Always keenly aware
Of the universe of worlds
Beyond my control,
And even my understanding;
On the increasingly frequent
Intrusions of risk
Into my significant reality
And the iota of explainable truth which guides the motion of my body but most frequently my mind;
Questioning the meaning of all words
Without thought or coordination;
Considering another restful journey
To clear my mind of human language
And in its place acquire thoughts and emotions from the street;
Without foreseeable direction,
Malice aforethought
Or noticeable signs of critical reaction
Giving birth to litter
Forgetting articles
And floating my sense of time up the Ganges;
Taking only seconds to counter the possibility of
Accepting more responsibility for myself;
Complicating matters with an interesting or bitter goodbye.

Farce!
False!
Fantasy maybe. Even still,
It’s far from fact.
Fiction!
I've seen more accurate depictions
Of Love
In abstract pictures.
At least it’s fierce colors
Show so form of passion
Fashion!
Artistic? It can be
But this is trendy
It'll fade as a
Fad!
True art is timeless
Truth? It can be
But this is candy
Not fruit
This is pop
Not soul
Technically it’s music
Because of it’s movement
But this needed no muse
Only tech
No chords
Piano or vocal
Only vocoder!
Inhumane, alien maybe.
But even the Vulcan
Shows some form of fire  
Folktale!
Fog!
The misleading smoke
Shows no water
In the vicinity
Only industry
The only esteem
In this engine
Is steam
Gas.
The closest thing
To nothing
Fodder!
Deflowered. Devoured
By self-expression
Selfish innovators imitating life
Forgetting to live it.
****!

Tell the truth about the way we loved.
Savagely
Fervidly
Passionately
Wildy
We burned down the walls of our own bedroom
We gave the stars a show
The shore something to grab hold of...
We were endless
Brilliant in our together
Innovators in our type of beautiful.
We inspired...
Men to love women whose mind's were worth
kneeling for,
And women who loved men with respect worth
submitting to...
Tell them how we loved
Tell them
Their was love
in the  way our feet moved
in relation to the other
The way our eyes danced through
all of these people
Till their was something worth settling on...
For me it was you...
For you it will forever be me...
I will tell them...
because sometimes the things that burn
the brightest tend to leave one breathless...
In a world so self contained...
We could not burn down these walls for our beautiful...

Raise your hand* if
your confidence is reaching its limit
Well let me tell you,
don't dare believe it for a minute

A poet stands at the center
of circles of illusions
Sparked by the fire within
and burnin' institutions

They write about the current state
as far as they can see it,
as well as personal doubts
claimin' that they can feel it

Don't hand your savings over,
'cause now you pay it forward,
but life won't pay you back,

So what you say to that?

"I say we're bein' controlled
by such an evil system;
a metal contract was forced
on lost and bleedin' victims."

"I don't agree with you, man.
We're where we need to be.
With very little control,
we risk to eat for free!"

We risk to eat for free?

"Food's a commodity!
And with overpopulation,
I say this honestly!"

"Don't mean to interrupt;
your notion of depravity
appears dumbfounded and
far from grounded by gravity."

"I say this world belongs
to kings and innovators;
hope of the people is thrown
to the incinerator."

"We're seeking liberators
mightier than the sword.
We work to buy them a pen -
weapons we can afford."

"And when their eyes are wide open
I think that writers see
the world not for what it is,
rather what it could be."

"Yeah! They're talkin' for us metaphorically,
imaginin' utopias for you and me,
questions answered rhetorically."

The world is yours**
and no one else's,
so live to give it more time
through love and being selfless.

Barack Obama, first US President of African origin.
Langston Hughes, earliest innovators of then-new literary jazz
                                     poetry.
Angela Davis, African American political activist, and author
Coretta Scott King, author, activist, and civil rights leader
Katherine Johnson, African-American mathematician

Anita Baker, African American singer-songwriter
Muhammed Ali, African American professional boxer and activist
Erykah Badu, African American singer-songwriter activist
Rosa Parks, the mother of the freedom movement and civil rights
Ida B Wells, African-American journalist and feminist
Colin Powell, statesman and retired four-star general in US Army
Al Sharpton, civil rights activist and Baptist minister
N*elson Mandela, South African anti-apartheid revolutionary
                                   political leader

Under the unforgiving summer sun, their small, winged bodies hover from one flowering plant to another, working tirelessly in the sweltering heat as we laze in the shade...

Their work is endless, the product harvested in minutes. Smoked into a stupor while we steal their treasures, and if some of them die, so be it...

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
revered before by human royalty and great innovators,

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
who connects life and death,
whose children killed the demon Arunasura in India,
and were prophets to the gods in Greece and Rome.

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
her bees fell from the sun in Egypt,
aided the first living man in Uganda,
and created man from the back of a mantis in the Kalahari Desert.

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
her children are the origin of magic in Eastern Europe,
a source of fertility and a connection to nature in North America,
and fierce, terrifying warriors in the South.

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
the Great Mother,
the root of being,
the bridge to the afterlife,
we owe her children our lives,
the least we can do is spare them their's.

Anigh, is the darkling of the effrontery eagle, effaced, replaced; it's worship towards the devil. Gallons of blood, used as cover, ash and mud; defiling of ****** mother's. Gallizing men drowned in sweetness of drunkened friends. Gamins created by cankered loot, oil fills the pockets; diamonds make slaves to. Gangrels run kingdom's from their ancestral hand-me-downs, gaolers imprison innocents, whilst thy rulers throw ****** for babes at compounds. Innovators; mocking God's name. Mixing men with robotics, keeping the pure obscured, locking animals in a cage. Inorbing creation with cameras as eyes, like rats they scurry, hide; when the truth is knocking. Like a drunkard; This circular hell shalt rock as a ship, many planet's art approaching, none help shalt thou get.

©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
©prophetic poetry.

Word meanings:
Anigh: near.
Darkling: growing darkness.
effrontery: shameless.
Eagle: the united states.
Effaced: erased, forgotten.
Gallizing: add water plus sugar to make stronger wine from grape juice.
Gamins: neglected boy left to the streets.
Gangrel: vagrant, loose built person.
Gaoler: jailer.
Whilst:while.
Thy:your.
Inorb: encircle, surround.
Circular hell: earth.
Art:are.

I dream of* lovers
who fascinate me to no end,
veering the course of their affection
from something they understand exists,
to something they fear to understand

I dream of hearts
yearning for their better halves,
as they seep deeper into the chasms
that engulf their intimacy within

I dream of sinners
who wish to speak of sin;
rather the innocence of deviance
and its naiveté when it comes
to matters of the heart

I dream of writers
who bleed from their pens
as they wholeheartedly express their emotions
and aspire to quell the heartache
that they endure every day

I dream of innovators
who wish to present upon their peers
the next invention selected
to represent the advent of a better tomorrow

I dream of tears.
I dream of tears....

Why? What sorcery forces one
to shed so many
that they leak past
the prisms of known consciousness
and into the peaceful slumber
that comforts aching minds?

I apologize.

Now you know of the dread, sorrow,
and sheer wonder that comes
when I dream of earthly elements
begging for peace.

I dream because I am a coward.
I apologize for *dreaming.

Some say that giving us freedom was a mistake

Whites, cameras, action!

Blacks are discriminated for a “whiter” satisfaction

We’re in the media, and we pretend it doesn’t hurt

But you have to admit it kinda sticks when the black guy dies first

How much positivity is connected to us on television

African American innovators still get no recognition

Instead follow that Kobe, or Tiger into the eye of media slander

That’s because even if it’s negative attention we choose to accept it

We run with it, have fun with it

Quite frankly, we should be done with it

There’s a reason why we as black people have such negative reception

When the results of our conflicts usually end with transgression

How often do you see

A black man on T.V.

Without a gun, drugs, or a crime scene he must flee

That’s not what I want our people to be identified with

But that’s not going to change until we stop accepting it

We aren’t unified as a people

Half of us recognize and sound up the movement

While the other half is content with only the other half doin’ it

Until we are unified as a whole no change will be made

We know this

Some of us just choose to stay the same

There are hardly any writers, freaks or conscious investigators for the living. Some one to shed light on the current affairs of  this nation, this Earth, this universe. Not these local heroes either, and not these reptiles behind computers. But some one who can bring us back to simpler modes of information distribution, like a news paper dropped off at every door step, run by revolutionaries and wonder fanatics who think and feel broadly, who don't give in completely to greed or materialism. Emotional wrecks who don't lead any one type of party, who are not interested in leading but, those of whom listen and replay. And, if they do or don't succeed in their studies so be it. We all have our duties in life, there will be another pack of poets right behind them, innovators. You gotta give something up some time, walk away a better individual for it, I think too.
A lot of deep sea divers out there, blind, not sure how to fallow the line back to the boat, scared they might run out of air soon, and they will. I've seen it happen to some good sailors.

How do we gauge freedom, what's right, who is right and why so many ******* questions...(?) At this moment in history we have a few choices and a few rules that must be risen high, on a flag post some where in the middle of this country, big enough so the whole world can see it up there, along with a new flag, too.
It reads, "Don't disrupt or hurt earthly habitats, inhabitants, or insult anyone because of their race, class, gender or religion.
Challenge, feud and collaborate. Don't freak out when ideas appose your own, letting your eyes become red and swollen.
Killing is out - unless it's killing yourself, or harming your own body. It's your body you don't want you want with it, (We just hope it doesn't come to such brutal measures).
Any harm done to another means that you will forced into rehabilitation - you will mediate, talk with counselors, learn to survive in nature, grow your own food, and if necessary be shown opportunity.
If you're a true ******* of ******, we don't have time for you, you are out of here." Some times some people can not be helped.

Is freedom something you would classify as having the ability to assemble your own conclusions? Does your reality in comparison to others appear stronger and less misguided because of the inherent morals, such as right and wrong? Is life a constant battle with others because of their ignorance, and can you find peace in your free-ness with out feeling like you've served justice upon them?

Next II

Some commonly ignored, also opposed at times, ancient mythologies like native american wisdom or south american indigenous ritual have been shattered by historians and scientists alike. Those who believe logic and reasoning are platters on a academic menu best served soon before they've assembled . All the while their dishes in abundance, rotten, sitting on the table surrounded by skeleton men, whose hearts where gray and dusty, dried up like prunes long before they had kicked the spit bucket. They wanted to build realities from recycled evangelical European patriarchal war mongers instead of clutching in the next hand research that exceeds simple Darwinian thought or archaeological speculation, to discover what lay behind our skin and deep within the hallows of consciousness.

"Let's reinvent the gods, all the myths
                        of the ages
Celebrate symbols from deep elder forests
[Have you forgotten the lessons
                        of the ancient war]

We need great golden compilations"

                                                             - J. Morrison

We do need great golden compilations. We've got to accrue volumes of books, music, obscurantist theory, and quantum exploration. We have to reflect, speculate and hover over the body in sagacious transcendentalism,  gag our selves until we feel unsettling and alive. Purge the mind of blackened clogs preventing a courtesy flush, headlong in a spiral, in the spirit of invention.

There are answers and then, there are replies. How do we reply to our own answers

young, so full of youth,
filled to the brim with
*** and desire and the
quest for flesh,

we are living the lives they
write about

we the young, so full of
uncontained emotion, so
happy to be alive and yet
not even realizing it, we
talk of suicide but never
believe it exists

we are perfect in our
decided ignorance of
our imperfections

(it gives us strength like
nobody knows)

-

spreading across the globe,
to China, Europe, and the
Southern Lands, our disease
is no plague

to the youth of the enslaved
places, to the poor countries,
and those shackled in the old
traditions:

we give to you our itch,
our burn, our aching and
hurting that drives us to
go out and do what needs
to be done

we give to you a reason
to make things better

(just as we give ourselves)

we are the reason
the earth still spins

we are the drive
behind every new
empire

we are the innovators
and the diviners

the makers of tools
and seekers of
riches

the creators of gods
and the gods
themselves

we, so young, so full
of energy and zeal and
lust, we the ones who
create and destroy, we
who so thoughtlessly
hurtle the human race
forward

we take ourselves to bed
each night, not wondering
with whom we sleep or
where we will awake;

knowing only that adventure
is worth having in itself.

that the morning is our treasure
and the new day is more fulfilling  
than any golden trinket in the
tombs of the old kings

this we sleep with, smiling,  
dreaming of the wild chances
we are challenged to tame

-

so young, so full of youth,
filled to the brim with ***
and desire and the thirst for
a definition in this grey and
blotted world

we awake each day
and drearily attack our
lives

we the pioneers, the philosophers,
and historians

humanity cannot live without us
(and I mean to say they have no
choice)

Concise, smooth
... in the mind's motor
Change the gears
... in the mind's motor.
Smooth transition
Up & Down
Forward & Reverse
The clutch
is not the crutch
the crucifix logo
on the bonnet
covering the forehead.

Pain on the dashboard
Diviners, decals or designators
Inflictors, innovators or inflexions
Pain on the Dashboard
Ignition, perception, cognition
waits for the turn key
in the soft tissue starter motor.

Turning indicators
flicker flash
amber red
there is no green.
Headlamps a dull glow
in the white hot agony
of the parking lot.
Robyn Youl.

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Cry out to the Fathers,
the Innovators,
and the Sinners!
The Creators of a modern day catastrophe,
and the Saviors of a nation once free.

I’m from black umbrellas, and two piece pant suits
From ***** snow, and cars, and trains
From lying on a Persian rug
That smells like Starbucks in the morning and leather at night

I’m from sparkly gum on sidewalks, buttercup taxis
Lion King on Broadway, ballets, beautiful
From the land of street vendors, with 2 for $5 and best you’ll ever see
From the noises at night that rocked me to sleep

I’m from summer waterskiing and jellyfish stings
From revenge battles with a barbeque skewer
From Tom’s grilled cheese cut diagonally like I like it
And floury cakes that turned the whole kitchen white

I’m from pesky deer ticks tucked behind my ear
Because I lied too long beside the lavender bushes
I’m from the old weeping willow that cried every day
That cried harder than me the day we left

I’m from those random memories that make me smile
The bunny I never got because I couldn’t water tomatoes
The duo stroller we had because I didn’t walk fast enough for my mom. The Bus Stop café every day because mom doesn’t cook in the morning

I’m from the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps
Born and raised in a heterogeneous blend of innovators
I’m from the fleeting recollections that make up my past
The metropolitan palace of memories that houses my childhood

I think I have come up with a solution
to the dilemma I described in another recent poem.
It is a path I always knew was available to me
but I did not know how to start upon it.
I am happy that it has remained open.

What is knowledge if it is not acted upon?
I will now reveal my most painful thought,
the burden I have been ******* about,
because we need to do something about it.
not just sit idly by as it destroys everything we know.

My secret is a spoiler.
The spoiler.
The ultimate spoiler.
The end of the universe.
"the heat death of the universe"
google it, and see.

This is really hard for me, saying this,
especially knowing that someone really cool may read it
and suffer as I have.
Please don't let it get you down.
although, I'm sure you won't.

But I have written so much already
and I haven't given what the title has promised.
The Solution is to construct a foundation
upon which future generations
of scientists,
inventors,
innovators,
and all of humankind
can build upon
so as to not only avert this terrible disaster
but to delve ever deeper into the vast reality we are born to

There is something incredibly comforting
and incredibly American
about sending a man to the moon
the science and math
the innovators and hard working
pull yourself up by your boot straps
Americans
named John and Bob
who come home after a long day
have a beer
and sit on their porch in a suburb
Something desolate and empty about the moon
alone and quite, completely silent
and the unknown
the fear that those up in space must have felt
how did they feel when they kissed their families goodbye
not knowing if they were going to see them again
uncertainty uncertainty uncertainty

"Go write a poem."
They tell me to pour my emotions out of the conversation,
and into a container they can silently curse and admire.
I'll gladly oblige their feeble minds
because after all, I'm only writing a poem.

"Go write a poem."
They tell me with a smile as if it should sting
because they believe poetry is fruitless and less fulfilling
than the insults they try to shoot like arrows
but why is it that they always seem to miss the mark?

"Go write a poem."
They are just so much better than the silence they receive,
they say, "It is what it is, so go do what you do and make art out of it,"
my brain explodes with the roars of lions, sirens, wrecking *****, marching bands,
because poets understand that it never just is what it is.

"Go write a poem."
Because we poets are angsty souls who cannot express
thoughts with words out loud- and stand up for ourselves,
we lack tact and function beyond writ and stage,
but what they fail to realize that a poet is never just a poet.

We are the creators of their entertainment (Shakespeare)
We are the innovators that fuel the beginnings of artistic thought (Rilke)
We are the warriors that fight for their civil rights (Angelou)
We are the martyrs that immortalize originality (Wilde)
We are the ones who make those powerful statements that those folks love to quote and label their photos with-
so the next time they tell me
"Go write a poem."
I'll make sure they hear the explosion.

That was my pen, before.
Lapped up every last drop of ink hungrily
And spewed them all out in just the right
Shape, the right amount, for the right meaning,
Blowing life into its royal blue color recipe
To craft breathing alphabets that animated
Into words that I remember
Were mischievous, but adorable babies:
They used to talk, walk, play, cry and sleep;
Oh, they used to live on their vast white landscape,
Reviving my memories with their
Own connotation- my innovators.

But my pen is a teenager: unpredictable and moody,
It now creates stubborn, sterile letters that just want to besiege
The tip, clog right there and not drop out.
Even if I ****** it awake now, my pen would just puke some
Little droplets shaped like letters that would
Blot the paper ugly, or, the words would exit deformed, like
Their genes had gotten affected by a nuclear bomb.

Oh, what have I done to enrage you, my love?
Did I over-feed you, or under-appreciate you
That your self-esteem decided to turn upon me,
Or become so dependent on you that my mind has dulled
Its imaginations far too dry now,
For you to shape them well?

My verses now wilt and die,
New lands in the paper just get wasted, alarming me
For land is a limited resource in my house, the earth.
But land is not the ultimate problem,
For there are a thousand landscapes I could pull out of my imagination;
Only if my pen would love me once more
And reproduce my ink faithfully,
I could be a writer again.

The sheep minded
Elevate ignorance
To celebrate
Their own mundaneness

Claim this enslavement
Is natural
That the moral
Shun the strays
Who walk in
Diverging ways

Cling to status symbols
And fashion trends

Their mind bends
To fit their servile situation

Praising the nation
Instead of humanity

Consumers not real creators
Products not innovators

Digesting stupidity
And spitting the same
Uniformed madness
Right back at me
And that is why
I love working nights

Some people wake up every morning
Fill their mug with strong black coffee
And commute to work
At work they slave away for the dollar
That never seems to truly satisfy
The hungry greed growing within them

They once were children
Who said they would be
firemen,
teachers,
artists,
pirates,
astronauts,
authors,
innova­tors and world-changers
When they grew up

On Fridays after work
Sometimes these people
Go out for a drink
After a few beers
One of them opens up to the fellow
coworker they are sitting next to:
"Oh," they'd say
"I have dreams of sailing away
I can't wait for the day
That I am able to break free from
the monotony and mediocrity
and pursue my purpose,
and my dreams"

"What noble ambitions you have"
The fellow coworker will respond
"But what are your plans to make this so?"

The dreamer will answer
"I don't know
All I do know is
That most people
Stay stuck in conformity
And then there are some who
follow their dreams."

If there's anything I've learned in the past year, it's that Normal people don't change. Normal people don't change. But then there's Abnormal people. The movers, the thinkers, the innovators, the shifters. They, unlike Normal people, see what they can become and change their lives firsthand. Normal people don't. They wallow and swallow, playing the victim to Life. False positivity crushes the Normal mind. Isn't it wonderful, being Abnormal?