What defines a man?
The words he chooses to use
- whenever he can.

I seem to get the blues
- each time I watch the news
- cause' it's always, "Oh- look whose
- been shot dead for his shoes!"
It leaves me, oh, so very confused
- and I can't seem to catch a clue
- as to why humans get infused with *****
- and try to bruise people with different worldviews.
Thus: the cops cruise- down the avenues
- and keep an eye on I and, each of, you.
What none of us seem to, willingly, view
- is if we formed a grand, organized crew:
- we could read stories of how we overthrew
- our masters in the history books of the past
- in and around three-thousand fifty-three.
Oh- how things could be so lovely, pretty,
- if we'd aim our eyes & arms at real enemies & harm
- in our lives. But, even still, they'll take our lives.
Because- silent, discreet leaders will always survive;
- they don't care if they sacrifice five thousand
- of their pawns: young dumb men who have gone
- willingly to their grave - to **** people who behave
- in a way their masters say, graceful as ballet,
- is, "so, very, distasteful. - Make their deaths painful."

Unfortunately- the history books will continuously
- be filled with falsities from the 21st Century.

I am a weathered statue,

silently, crumbling away into nothing.

I was built at your base -

  in your magnificent presence,

  in rains falling, under leaves rustling,

  beneath the heavens

  that are you.

Gah! The thought of your face -

  forces a smile unto my own.

  --  

In the past, the depths of my skull
 
have been unsettlingly hazy.

But, smoke only lingers so long.
 
It's as though - I have pulled -

  a plug from my ears 

  and, so swiftly,

  the smoke dissipates above.

 I guess all I really needed

  was a gentle shove - from myself.

--

To be the man for her - would be

to have, oh, so much wealth.

As the mallards do quack-
he falls over: into below, the rough;
attempting to find the oxygen he lacks.
In a collapsed state of mind, and bones;
he stands back up, trying to look tough.

As the finches do sing, and cheep-
he stand there shaking, in solitary,
because his figure is too frail- meek-
weak to weather these Wednesday woes.
"Oh! Wednesday's evermore weary."

He can say- cry to thy, as a fact, that
his head stay virtuous through it all;
though: he cannot help, the fact, that
his nerves may tremble, frequently..
in the spills, anxious spells, he befalls.

"Oh, I would be so enthralled
if you would embrace this estranged elf!"
Falling; to the muddy waters, he slithered:
to see if he would- could vividly, see
the face- nature of his true, inner self.

But- the muddy waters bear no image
and he begins to wonder if it's an omen.
He gaze, into muddy waters, in grimace.
He begins to believe, he should listen
to what it is they will tell- show him.

But- he has always been pigheaded-
& will likely keep wowing on Wednesdays.
"You oughta view where y'r life b'headed-"
pointed out passing pastor: eyes, a, glisten.
But- he's never been the one to pray.

He peers as the pastor saunters off
and from a, near, brief bit away: he hears,
"For that young soul, all hope is lost!"
"Oh! But the pastor, himself, is lost!"
he projects back at those zealous ears.

"Blast'd pastor has ****** in my puddle!
This puddle in my mind, he's splashed in!"
Godly guys grieving his soul does befuddle
- his soul. He'd avoid that, at any cost.
"Now it'll be weeks, before I can bathe in
- my puddle of mud, comfortably."

Ancient astronomers let out a sigh
- upon realizing that their' intrigued eyes
- cannot see all o' thee Planets in our skies
- past all o' these intrusive, metallic flies
- that are, strategically, designed, simply, to spy
- on, each and every one of, you and I.
They may find themselves distraught
- and will try to move themselves abroad
- but their' freedom can never be bought
- because the elites despise their' thoughts;
- thoughts of freedom, liberty, and justice.
The royals'll ****** anyone who's conscious
- regardless of how, incredibly, harmless
-they might, very well, be. Don't you see?
That it is lethal to meddle in the plans of royalty.

"What in thee hell have you woken cheerful for?
Tis' but another start of nineteen eighty-four:
- this much I am sure, and can assure- you, of.
Tis' but another year of satellites spying from above
- & tis' but another year of people dying from more
- manmade infections, bugs, and diseases whose cure
- will never be given to us peasants: this much's sure.
What reason do they have to save us people they ignore?
We're deplor-able
- and we'll all be dead before- you know."

I guess what, it is,
that I'm trying to say, is that:
I do not wish to be an anchor
that tears through the beautiful ocean
that is you..
for, I would rather be the air
that pleasantly coincides nearby.

Upon an eighth floor balcony,
the wind whispers, such, silent screams.

He decides, under the moons beams:
to the gusts, he longer wishes to talk.
He rises to the edge, as the winds mock:
feet leaving the ledge, he begins,
  duskdreaming, pondering,

'I wonder, of the streams-
  in B.C.- in which does her heart lie?'

Upon the concrete sidewalk
below the eighth floor balcony:
  the wind's whisperous screams
   have been silenced, so it seems.

In order to make a dollar and to get ahead:
- they wish to see us all deceased,
- (Yes!) they wish to see us all dead,
- or crippled, at least, with man-made disease.
The last thing they wish to see is for us to be free;
- so - they'll **** us in any way possible:
- infecting your family, thee, me, and we
- in ways so, very, cruel and methodical.
The truth is: we are no longer human beings;
- we are, simply, their livestock- or product.
I assure you that you and/or your siblings
- will feel their, so, inhumane misconduct;
- for - it is t'wards each, and every, one of us.
They'll do anything in their power to **** us all.
Please, please, don't - in thee elites put your trust
- because- in their lives: we are pawns, so small.
We must, all, break away from their society,
- we must build up our forts up in the trees,
- if any o' us have a hope of being free
- or, ever in our lives, seeing liberty!
For - all our rifles: they will come to seize,
- tis' a worried attempt to take our arms,
- ensuring they're the only ones who can cause harm.

I cannot catch the correct words
- to accurately convey my feelings
- so instead it comes out in bursts
- and, thus, I lie awake most evenings.
I lie awake thinking: "where it all went wrong,"
-and similar things- like, "where do I belong?"
However, I never seem to find an answer;
- or maybe I block it out because I prefer
- to remain a willfully ignorant & naive Monsieur.

If only I were out with some streams & trees;
for- there, indeed, is where my body begs to be.
I wish: on my cheeks, I felt a gentle breeze;
one blowing t'ward me off vast, open seas.
You see? I am trapped on a wide, grassy plain!
Stuck in this dreary place- where it all began.
Trapped on the plains; heeding the wind's pain-
ful howling stories of each woman and man-
  each that ever was- and will come to be.
I suppose I'm only conceiving the land that she-
resides within: the place she lies down to sleep.
A kingdom of sorts- a kingdom of many ports
built of towering pillars o' glimmering Quartz.
You see? Her very presence- it seems to thwart
all negative energy that any man could sport.
In short, she is like a mountainous terrain;
one that I would like to scale to the peak of
where I'll sit weeping out my eyes as a train-
track is built around her body. An engine shove-
s across her back on wooden planks and rails so shoddy.

I wonder: just how much time has been spent-
by men upon earth thinking where it all went-
downhill- and all o' thee ways they can better things.
I think to myself, "how many jewel adorned kings-
have been kept up at night and been forced to think?
How many rulers have been urged to'ward the drink-
whilst overseeing the current state of their empire?
How many Knights have witnessed the fire-
creep up the inner walls of their home town?"

My dearest girl, wipe those weeping eyes o' yours;
surely, you must know: everyone cries and feels sore
- sometimes; it makes us appreciate the sunshine.
My sweet girl, don't simply resort to the red wine
- in an attempt to ease your, oh so, numb mind.
We may never be able to rewind; this is true.
All I can hope for is a beautiful future for you.
If I could be a part of it, I would really love;
but- if not, I know we've got people up above
- watching down over each and every one of us.
So if you're ever wondering if it gets better:
- know, in your heart, that it does.

T'was the day they trimmed him mane
- an',  suddenly, he looked - just - the same
- as every other peasant boy being sent to war;
- an' they never questioned what they're dying for.

With eyes so bright
as to dull the, blinding, city lights,
she raced throughout my mind.
It is not entirely clear
why the, mere, sound of her voice
rings like a song, so pleasant with me.
I think, that what it is, I feel
is what the world calls love.
I have no need for these eyes,
if love, truly, is blind.
& I'll let you cut off my ears,
if love needs not hear.
I write all these words
yet, I know it's a curse
because I will always wish
to see & hear her.
She is so vibrant, so kind
& one thing I wouldn't mind
would be spending some time-
growing and withering
with her.

How beautiful each & everyone of us is;
- surely, you must be aware of this!
For- what, it is that, each of us are
- is the sparkling matter which fell from the stars
- a long, long time ago.

What would you say, if I portrayed -
a thought- no- an image
inside of your brain?

Would you read through
the sorrow and pain?

Would you read on a day
that my originality is, ever, so plain?

Would you read when my words
seem to mesmerize:
the times when I get a twinkle in my eye?

Do not lie.

Would you read
until I, last, say 'goodbye'?

What would you say, if I debate that:

  "all the vile old men in the world-
 are actually children- who have failed
to make amends with the people,
places and things that have hurt them,
way back when" ?

Imbeciles scribbling death threats to "the Donald;"
- all because: their whole life, they've been coddled
- by their teachers, parents, and the television set.
Lil' do they know: HRC would've been war & death.
Though, they'll keep regurgitating the media's lies..
- all because they've blinders pulled over their eyes.
I suppose, I, do, feel sorry for the wandering sheep;
- because all o' their third eye's are, oh, so asleep.

Wake up.
Stop letting them destroy your species.
You, truly, are the change you wish to see;
- if you're nothing but a hateful pawn,
- in the greedy elite's information war,
- what, then, becomes of the Earth?

"Strangle me, Medusa!
  Don't merely turn me to stone!
  Many a moon I've spent,
   as so, (******)
   serenading the silence
   with the songs of your embrace.
  I want you to use your bare hands!
  Listen to my moans-
   as my life slips away-
   off into the abyss.

  Do not fret, my dear girl!
   I will be full of bliss-
   as a direct result of your
   fingertips twirled-
   upon my skin.
  It's not a sin
   for me to crave
   a safe haven in your hands
  upon the arrival of my departure."