december fields
it only rains in these fields in december
for xmas is crying never comes here
people are too poor to care
for a fake invisible sky god
who may or may not exist
what exists is poverty and superstition
believing in what they can see in the day
and can’t see in the night
in omens and signs and words
oddly xmas isn’t on the list
just another working day
in the town where december rain
only falls in the fields in december
small town folk paranoid insolent
using bibles as toilet paper
how I feel the december rain

Our beautiful life, preserved
against the cold that may return:

cans with beans, old newspapers
worn out clothes, jars of jam
up to the ceiling
the hard land, and the hard way
of the great leaders, and the little ones
who fought for their own advantage
the heroes of steel, later torn
from their home and from the books

But we are still there, in our musty house
we still share - a beautiful life

Buzzing everywhere,

the oasis full of bees --


All flowers empty.

In the grip of despair, amidst famine and filth,
A glimmer of hope pleads for divine grace.
Whispers of remnants yearn for echoes to reach.

"I beg you, show me mercy!" I weep,
Like a fading ember, virtuous yet frail,
Burdened by a sorrowful world so deep.

Billions of souls inhabit this existence,
Some in lavish homes, others in wretched holes,
Yet for me, solace is scarce, no place for persistence.

In the terror of the masses, I find strange amusement,
At a gathering's stage, a speaker proclaims,
"If we embrace them, they'll steal our sustenance."

But in the same assembly, they hailed us as the leaders of tomorrow, the hailed us as the future,
How can this contradiction be? I ponder and wonder,
While poverty's grip holds tight, unyielding and sutured.

On shelterless streets, i fight for survival,
Searching for a chance, scavenging in strife,
A victim of circumstances, without a rival.

Oh, Lord! What awaits when night falls?
In this dark part of town, where darkness thrives,
Will I lie alone beneath the sky's angry calls?
Why am I forsaken and unknown to my kin?

I detest the wealthy, cursing their prosperity's bane,
Perhaps the speaker at the town hall spoke some truth,
How did they find comfort, while we endure squalor's chain?

Whom did they harm, whom did they exploit? I question,
Which commandments did they break to reach such heights?
Or did inherited wealth become my oppression's expression?

My forefathers, once prosperous but alone in their days,
Do their mistakes haunt me, a burden I bear?
Their debts pass on, and I become their pays.

Curiosity led me to the price of liberation's door,
The gods whispered, "No fixed cost, just surrender your soul,
Take what you desire, a loan to your core."

They promised a transformed life, with riches bestowed,
Claiming freedom and happiness beyond strife,
"Are you willing to abandon everything?" they bestowed.

"We are destined to fail," they mockingly declare,
My flesh meant for opulence, destiny ordained,
"Do you want to join the winning team and surrender your name?
Believe in me, surrender to me, abandon God's reign."

The speaker proclaimed that we are the future of humanity,
Perhaps there's a grain of truth in his words,
A voice distinct from the gods, untamed whispers untie.

I know a man who considers himself poor,
Yet possesses unseen wealth, profound and true,
Understanding want and deprivation, wisdom to explore,
Finding contentment in plenty or scarcity's view.

To trade one's soul for progress is too steep a cost,
Success must be earned, not acquired without due,
Claiming what's rightfully yours, forever embossed.

My greatest investors, my loyal and true son,
No debts to repay, just unconditional love,
His path, His price, the sole endeavor to pursue,
Dearest one, the noblest venture is honoring me and every other thing shall be added to you.

"Hard to live"
Should be the tagline
For our beloved country.

It cost a leg
To find a place to live.
And an arm
To physically keep pushing forward.

America has a problem.
I'll say it once more.
America has a problem.
 
This is where people have the
Right to be judged
For falling in a failed system.

Let politicians claim virtue,
and abandon honest men.

Let the poor inherit promises,
and be comfortable servants.

Let the famous enjoy advantage,
and carry no favors in heaven.

Let physicians prescribe hope,
and a worthy price be paid.

Let education forge solutions,
and notorious liars lose favor.

Let simple humanity be rewarded,
and tyranny reap the sorrow of death.

Nobility divine fills gaps of transcendence,
    Soars to and from the throne heavenly,
Exalts morals near the king of ascendance,
    Patrolling the good, and sons of the seventy.

A duty forgotten, replaced with dependence,
    On prayers rarely heard, and logic of a herd -
Divinity is far in absence; man in attendance,
    The book is a third, and teachings are blurred.

Andeliviuan corruption supposedly erased:
    The creation rotten of Sariel, wanders gaily.
The holy and fallen angel’s doing embraced,
    By the clay beings caressing evil like a frailly.

By God not, who from heaven him displaced.
    Yet, the legacy of the wrong stands humanly,
In Thailand, America, Palestine, and all graced -
     A grace of sinfulness celestial and worldly.  

Religion is the poor’s only ultimate truth,
     the rich’s side hustle, and the rulers’ tool;
It is the loss of power that defiles the sooth,
    The one the poor has not, but does the fool.

Robbers’ servants, bread crumbs consumers,
    Toothless **** dogs, emaciated lost tramps,
Little blind pawns, vultures’ puppets, tumours,
    And wrenches they are, the upper hand’s lambs.

If only Raguel’s judgements fall upon man,
    Raphael’s punishment beautifies this existence,
Gabriel’s wrath makes not all humans ane,
    And Michael saves us, the Sarahs, in assistance.

In the heart deepened with old repression,
   That mounts with plenitude of filtered feels,
Resides a universe yearning for expression,
    In a meat clay who feeds on calories of meals.

Man, in the genesis, in the light, in the dark,
    In prosperity, in turmoil, triumphed with vices;
vileness, abuse, wreckage is our sole mark,
    On this planet whose population is in slices.