I do not make it easy,
I do not make it kind.
I do not travel breezy,
nor sing of earth and rhyme.

My words are thunderborn,
hatred, war, and pain;
politics for one and all,
social grief and game.

Entertainment's worth,
the value I extract;
a tale for twenty thus,
a tale for us and that:

Memories yet traveled,
roads not trod by us;
the voice of yet born trillions,
the journey that is love.

You are not deserving of the hatred you hold;
this self-inflicted thing of barbarous intent.

Not because of some inherent goodness,
and never for what you were.
Such notions are silly. Instead,
you are, each day-
-and every hour hence,
stochastic potential:
whatever that may be.

You'll never be white enough.
You'll never be right enough.

You'll never know the route they're taking.

Because your mother was Irish.
Because your father was mixed.

Because your grandma was Polish, to them so much ****.

This world is too kind.
This world is too cold.

This world is tinder, burnt before old.

We'll breathe poison together.
We'll breathe lies till we're cured.

We'll breathe drink like oxygen, dumber for sure.

The flowers are dead, cursed rotten in bed.
The flowers are plastic, and taste of ill lead.

The flowers are children, petals wrought poor.

This flower is tired, far from du jour.

Ability becomes superb, becomes aplomb,
becomes metaphysical bombs dropped,
public consciousness shot;
the crowd shakes and writhes,
the crowd beats ten thousand drums,
echoing, echoing,
"The Greatest of All Time!"

Their god is flesh, is bone,
is stone becoming a wheel,
becoming a tower: royal-
-tied, educating the masses on excellence;
lacks references,
tiger dropped in the Arctic,
king of the jungle.

America the Brave.
One-way ticket to DC.
Cigarettes. Coffee. Tylenol.

I hope your God exists.
Yes, that heavenly bliss
and his choir full of angels.

He'll see you all,
and he'll grieve your fall:
the justice you've avoided.

Because your Eden is dying,
and your neighbors are sick.
Yet, you have chosen hatred.

Hoarding wealth and warmth,
saying naught of the poor,
and waving off enslavement.

Destiny a winding road,
fate the culmination;
to exist beyond such conceptions,
a truer freedom none have touched.