Something
About nothing
Is incredibly beautiful
Maybe that’s the wonder of space
Quite simply
The amount of nothing
That EVERYTHING is made of

In what peace can they rest?
They, who struck to cut the vital cord,
To silence the endless violent voices they had heard.
In what peace can the rest?
What peace, other than the universal silence
Of all voices that cry out in hate?

We are hated
Impetuous, reckless
For our bodies so out of sync with our minds
Our minds which cry to be numbed
But we are told we must face our world
Raw and unaltered
We are told we are dangerous to ourselves and others
So
We are told we must swallow our spoonfuls
Of seething vitriol
But we do not heed these naysayings
And though we are faced with righteous constriction  
We cannot bear the concept of this empty red iron life
So we escape the sub-real by fleeing to the surreal, the anesthetized anti reality
And burn away our tortured, sober, senses
Until we hold no fear of our forefather’s submissary world
And we may repress our heinous dreams
And our uncomfortable thoughts of a greater reality
Drowned in a caustic flood
Of shameless hedonism, glorious temporary satisfaction, and amorous alcohol

I have watched a million silent transactions of hate
I have borne silent witness to unspoken atrocity
I have stood by and done nothing as those I loved fell
To the fists and blades and nooses and flames of industrious bigotry
I stood aside and allowed the hordes of damnation to overtake my own

I have wept for them as they fell.
I have cried out their individual names
Cried as they were slaughtered
Do not think me stupid, cruel, or uncaring.
I did not want it to be this way, but never the less, it is.

I did not want for my loved ones to fall so low.
I did not set out in the hope that they would sink into iniquitous despair
Nevertheless, they have.

And yet, I regret nothing.
Because, I alone know.
I alone know the ultimate destiny that I myself wrought.
I was the one who took infinite nothing and formed it into something.
At least, that is what I believe I did.
I believe that I wrote each perfect neuron,
And that I twisted and deformed some to create, not their foolish “normal”
But rather my endlessly superior real.

For I am the architect of reality
I am my own immortal, perfect, self-imagined, self-sanctified god.
I will live forever, master of the universe.
Unless, of course, they unplug this feeding tube
And I die.

and what if I don’t care
what if, in spite of your efforts, I am unmoved
what if you failed
what if I am not alone
what if your greatest horrors are realized
what if not only the few, but the many reject you
and your fabricated truth
and you forget
and are forgotten
an empty shell of the best forgotten past
and you no longer behold the world from your ****** golden throne
but from the slums
in the dysentery and refuse that is a product of your empire
and in the putrid mire of your failure
you die
the end

“A real man,”
She said,
“Must not be afraid to show his sensitive side,
But he better swing his *****
When he needs to.
He must be strong
But his strength must not make him weak.
He must be smooth,
But he must not slip or slide away.
He must be refined
Not ground thin.
He must be proud
But not haughty.
And then she smiled
Her cavalier smile.

And I said

“Let me show you.
Let me show you what a real man looks like.”
So I showed her.
I showed her my death
And rebirth,
I showed her my missing rib
And broken teeth,
I showed her my lying mouth
And my truthful eyes,
I showed her my deific wrath
And I showed her
The book I wrote
In ancient tongues
A thousand years ago
I showed her that holy book,
My seditious tyrannical spirit,
My unconquerable will to dominate  
Then I showed her my hand,
Its fine lines,
And the diacritic print of each finger.

Then she showed me,
Purpose.

the greatest intoxicant known to man
does not come in the form of a substance
it is not alcohol, nor ******, nor *******
it cannot be smoked, or shot up
it costs nothing
and any man can attain it
it ruins more lives than all others combined
kills more, addicts more, slowly wastes more into despair
unstoppable, claiming more each day
the greatest drug is blind rage
against which no war can be won
so that man need not fear any drink, smoke, powder, or pill
simply the horror of their own anger
for man holds no greater addiction
than to his own intoxicating rage