Light the torches.
Burn it to the ground.
Let the flames dance until the ashes flee this plot of land upon the back of the wind.
This patriarchal house that father built has been stained with the blood of past victims.
The blood of enemies dots the floor while whats left of friends streaks the walls, marking the spot where they leaned for one last moment of respite prior to life escaping them.
We stand here with the warm blood dripping from our hanging fingertips.
Clothing streaked red.
Clearly we all had a part to play.
Whether part of the execution or part of the clean up, we all took part in the slaughter.
Fathers swung blades.
Mothers bandaged the wounded so they may **** again.
Children carried the buckets of blood to be disposed of.
Yet no one wept.
Not a tear was shed in the name of this great nation.
No one wailed during the systematic destruction of our resources.
Roads are crumbling.
Water is poisoned.
Politics are a circus.
The police have become a military force.
And lives have been destroyed.
Fathers are still wielding the blade
While mothers take up the blood buckets of their children who have been slain.
When does it end?
Does it end when we run out of weapons?
When we run out of people?
When we run out of love?
Weapons are only an extention of the wielder.
The bomb unbuilt cannot explode.
Our mother's words should be ringing in all of our ears.
Be good.
Treat people right.
Love.
Instead we jam fingers in ears, scream and stamp feet until even our thoughts are nothing but static.
The hiss and squeal of gunshots and speeding tires continually drown out the sounds of children's laughter and those Marvin Gaye records that Mrs. Jenkins plays on Sunday nights.
This isn't just a story of the inner city blues.
The suburban warriors are also witness to the carnage.
It's time to stay the blade.
Allow mothers to mourn.
And children to play.
Peace is a choice.
Choose wisely.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
Good morning, my friend.
As we awake to another beautiful sunrise,
your eyes radiate the burning star of your soul and
shine upon the cold moon of my heart,
allowing you to see me as I truly am;
A simple mixture of water, rock and minerals,
working in perfect balance to float through the empty vacuum of this space.
Your light shines upon my imperfections,
laying them bare.
The warm glow of your rays has sprouted life
in this barren landscape.
I yearn for your gravitational pull.
If my inching towards you throws the solar system out of alignment,
then I will stay close by as we watch the planets collide and
the milky way melt into shooting stars,
nourishing the primitive life forms that grow inside me until a
new ecosystem sprouts from the combined forces of our energy.
Good morning, my friend.
Thank you for your sunshine.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
It's the first day of summer heat.
Temperature is one hundred and four.
The junkies and drunks hit the street,
shufflin' towards death's door.
Freon raindrops fall from air conditioners
that hang from windows on the third floor.
I think "this day couldn't be finer",
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Bicycle tires roll over broken glass
from the shattered window of a store.
The prostitutes all congregate beneath the overpass,
as they shuffle towards death's door.
**** smoke fills the air
as I finish off beer number four.
A chance to put my mind elsewhere,
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
Tear gas and fear tactics.
Riot gear and semi-automatics.
Our military industrial complex has come home.
The government wire taps your cell phones.
Spies on you with drones.
While bully cops with billy clubs break your bones.
You know the motto:
serve master's interests,
protect master's property.
The crooked politician is today's slave owner.
Officer his overseer.
That sweet war on drug money armed them up.
Homeland Security bought the armored truck.
Nothing left to do but duck and cover up the evidence before it hits the 6 o' clock media dump.
I stand here today in full protest of toy soldiers in bulletproof vests placing American citizens under house arrest
with evening curfews and death threats.
Until those who are sworn to
uphold the law
begin to
abide by the law,
there will never be peace.
There will never be rest.
The Geneva Convention of 1925 prohibits the use of
asphyxiating and poisonous gases, liquids, and bacteriological
methods of warfare.
The United States has spoken out against countless countries
that have use these tactics on their own people
but has stood idly by as the police use it as a tool to disperse
the peaceful protests of American citizens.
This ******** needs to stop.
No one needs to die.
Not a civilian, not a cop.
America's infatuation with arming itself has come with
zero accountability and a severe lack of responsibility.
A scared nation with fingers on triggers have created
a bigger body count and has widened the gap between
police and community.
Hate and bigotry will never disappear from the human psyche.
It is the responsibility of every individual to
bring positivity into the world.
Ignore the intolerant.
Praise the pacifist.
May future generations reject the appalling actions of their forefathers
and usher in a new age of love and peace based on
tolerance and understanding.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
I've been called
A freak
A ******
A headcase
I've been told that
I'm crazy
I'm insane
I'm bizzare
I've heard my actions are
Alarming
Unsettling
Offbeat
All of this may be true
But it's me.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Do not speak highly of me when I die,
we know the words aren't true.
I cheated.
I lied.
I made too many women cry.
I drank
and crashed my car a few times because of it.
I smoked cigarettes
and didn't brush my teeth enough.
I stole once
which I was never proud of.
I said nasty things
to very nice people
and I didn't do enough to help
those who were in need.
Please, my friend,
do not speak highly of me when I die.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
I've called this ghost town home for far too long.
Spent my nights drinking with the dead.
Each sip cementing their existence in my head.
Listlessly taking shot after shot.
Whiskey,
the water of life,
commemorates the spirit of the deceased.
One
for those who passed away in peace.
Two
for those taken prematurely.
Toast number three shall be a farewell to me
but I am not ready to no longer
be.
You see,
if I were to dream eternally
and sink deeper down the fiery well,
those infamous nine levels of hell,
I would forge fresh footprints through the ash covered ground.
Walking with boots of compressed gunpowder,
the trail I leave behind is always primed to catch up with me and
spark the time bomb I walk with.
The seconds
tick
tick
tick
away.
The clock is always heading toward zero.
I tried to be a hero for many,
yet couldn't save myself.
My desires put upon a shelf.
A self inflicted penance handed down from the only one
I was foolish enough to call
god.
I am too far gone to be saved.
Grave stones mark the decay of my hopes and dreams.
The etchings on each marble tablet will eventually fade away.
The soil I am to be buried in must be overturned if anything is
to grow where I could not.
Mother nature always finds a way to nurture even the worst of her children.
Like any good matriarch, she refuses to accept anything less than her child's full potential.
Even in death.
Though I refused nourishment and love,
mother earth still holds me close.
Embraces me in a final attempt to squeeze the last drops of good which
were buried deep and thought to be dried long ago.
Ignoring her guidance, I've lived as if I would never end up six feet.
Deep were my thoughts,
dangerous my actions.
Though I lived as if I couldn't be defeated,
my first true test comes as I fight for control of my soul.
Angels and devils are now my judges,
each making their case for my demise.
The scales of destiny weigh my past actions.
The outcome holding my future.
So I'll fill my glass one final time,
and toast to those who left before me.
I'm coming home.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
I'm stripped.
Flipped inside out.
Every emotion I've ever had for you
kept locked away within this ribcage
is now laid bare.
As I stand here,
exposed before you,
The brutal honesty of my love for you is now clear.
The 206 bones in my body have been
etched with the 206 love letters
that I've written to you in my head.
Every impulse I have shoots from my brain
at the speed of 170 miles per hour,
racing through 46 miles of nerves,
reminding 640,000 sense receptors of their need to
touch you
smell you
taste you.
Though I am just a humble man
comprised of 60 chemical elements,
my heart beats your name
100,000 times per day.
25 trillion red blood cells act as messengers,
carrying word of your beauty across
60,000 miles of veins, arteries, and capillaries.
Every fiber of my being consumed with
one thought.
You.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
I want a girl that sings like Norah Jones.
A heavenly voice to recite my favorite poems.
I'd ask for a lullaby every night before bed,
So every note may echo within my sleepy head.
Sweet syllables that spark the most beautiful of dreams.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC