My written words are a true reflection of myself.
Stop reading the words, and look at them close.
They don’t follow grammatical rules a lot of the time, and they don’t believe in ******* censorship.
They don’t believe in editing, re writing, or organizing.
They are a jumbled mess of run on sentences with no controlling rules or principles to give order to.
And I love to break even the most deeply rooted rules, like not starting a sentence with And or But.
Seriously, words are my weapons and I can cut through the ******* and break through to a higher meaning.

"What do you do all night?" She wanted to know.
I didn't understand the question.
"Can we watch Netflix or something?"

No, no, no my newfound friend, this is not the place to Netflix and Chill.
I need to teach you these things now.
I need to teach you because I need to spend one-third of my life with you.

After having vowed to never get married, never settle down, never
    have kids or college degrees, never spend another night in jail,
       never waste another night fretting over whether I should've call that
             hand or returned that call.
After all this, I still stuck with you.
Confined to the quiet of an empty building.
I've seen the world, and world history unravel and unfold inside these walls.

I've walked through the remains of Chernobyl, looking over the charred
     ashes and the shadows, and out into the vast empty parking lots that
        stretch for miles.
I've held Geiger Counters in my hands and monitored for signs of life,
     and pondered on how I managed to be the last one standing.
Gawking awkwardly at my sickly arms and wondering why they aren't
     glowing green.

I've stalked ancient tribes through the recesses of my mind.
Truly, the only explorer of a people that never existed outside my own
     head.
A people with a passion for knowledge that exceeds the early incans.
They gather outside the palaces of Kings and Popes in order to hear
    their poetry in the mornings.
They never take it serious, or cast aspersions, or build idols. They only
    come to listen, and then....they dissipate.
They head to their jobs in the markets, or on the docks, or to the book
    binderies in the center of the city, since reading and literature is
       considered my peoples greatest currency.
And on the outskirts of town, there is a quiet army waiting.

Sometimes the building catches fire, or the flood rains come down, or
    the sky opens up into a ****** storm of biblical proportions.
Sometimes there's a tear in whatever dimension it is that stops us from
    being able to see the spirit world, and I stand up on the roof and see
        hundreds of ghosts walking around.
Proving once and for all that the dead stay with us, even after their
    dead.
We can feel their smiles in the car seat next to us, and we can feel their
    disappointment when we don't understand why it all happened like
        this.

Sometimes I'm a hitman or a hacker, or a ghost myself.
I think about if I died here tragically and my soul was stuck in
   this ill-fitting suit forever. Would I care? Or would I be ethereal so it
      wouldn't even matter?
Would I wander the halls on a constant tour of the buildings?
Stuck in my rounds for eternity, I'd look out the windows to the park
   across the street and know that I would never feel the dirt between
       my toes again.  
This is my idea of hell.
Would other people be able to see me?
Would other guards quit because of the ghost of the guard who died?

Sometimes I'm a ghost hunter, here to clear out a building over the long
    weekend, before the workers come back on tuesday morning.

Sometimes I've sat in executive offices making decisions that affect life
    or death.
I've hired and fired people who were going to change the world with
   a new therapy or a medicine that would change the fates of millions.
I've interviewed people and yelled at people and told them that the
   only way to truth is out that ******* window.
And it doesn't matter that we're on the sixth floor, you have to jump.
Everything that matters in this life is a leap of faith.
And they always do.
They saunter past my desk, and open the window, and stand on a chair
     and casually step out.

Some of them smile.
Their eyes closed, just feeling the rush of the wind on their face.
Some of them soar.
They spread their arms, which the sun sets ablaze and burns away the
   flesh to reveal their wings underneath.
They fly into the sun, and I try to watch them to figure out how it was
    done so that I too can fly away.
But the sun is bright and before I can catch a glimpse, I blink.    
And it's gone.

I was painting a portrait the other night,
    when I figured this out; so let me paint you a picture now.
See I’m a writer, and not a very good artist, and I’m overly clumsy
    and far too bulky for my own good.
I have a boxers’ hands to go with a boxers’ grip which is the worst
    way to grab a paint brush unless you want to tip over your paints.
And that’s exactly what I did.
I tipped over that tray thing with the little slots for all the different
   colors of paint to keep them separated.
They went tumbling to the floor and they all mixed together and
   became one, and there was no more white, no more purple, no
       more yellow or red.
There were no lines to color in or outside of cause the paint was
     everywhere and I left it to dry instead of calling it a
                      “mess that needs to be cleaned up.”
I gave it a chance to become its own thing.
And it didn’t.
It just remained sprawling on the floor.
But at LEAST it was given a chance.
And then I turned on the TV to see that cowboy has-been from Gran
     Torino talking about how this is a “***** generation” and how  
             everyone is too Politically Correct.
He said we used to not be afraid of words like '******' and '****'
    and we walked around proudly in our own neighborhoods,
         and I immediately turned that ******* off.
Not to ignore it, but because I couldn’t respond to it.
I’ve been screaming at the TV for 32 years now and have determined
     that either they can’t hear me or they just don’t give a ****.  
It may be both.
But I want to scream.
I want to tell him that people still aren’t afraid to use those Words; they just choose not to.
I want to tell him that they still walk around proudly in their own neighborhoods, and they are even more proud that he doesn't live here.
But all that’ll lead to,
is an Us vs. Them mentality,
which eventually leads to wars.
We can’t have a war.
Not based on this.
And there are people out there who want that, and there are a
   lot of them.
And they are using those words and they are walking those
      neighborhoods, and they are posting on Alt-Right Message Boards
           and talking about how the White Man is going extinct and how
                   they are the minority.
They white-wash phrases like “White Supremacist” to become
   “Racial Purists” and I realized that they just gave us the answer.
We need to spill the paint.
We need to fall in love with people of color.
Any color.
Every color.
We need to spill the paint and mix it together and make new colors.
And it’ll take a long time, but anything worth doing is worth doing
     right.
And there will be no more primary colors and secondary colors,
    there will only be people.
But its not enough to mix the colors, we have to clean up the act too.
We have to raise our children of all colors right.
We have to tell them that no color is better than another, and that you  
    can draw a painting with just one color, Because that IS a choice!
You can surround yourself with just one color, and only use just one
       color your entire life, but what kind of a life is that?
You walk down the street and the Roses are grey. And the trees are
     grey. And the grey men at the bar are hitting on grey women
          outside and the bartender is pouring grey goose for everyone
               trying to wash down the fact that something is definitely
                      wrong.
We need Red roses and green trees and black men with white women,
      and Asian women with white men, and everyone needs to just start
           mixing and loving, and loving to mix until there is nothing left to
                 stereotype.
Nothing left to minimize, undermine, or scrutinize.
And if we don’t do this soon,
I fear there may be nothing left to scrutinize at all.

A roar broke the silent dissidence of head shaking in a coversation
   about America that I was in.
This voice railed against the country whose pride ran deep in her blood.
And with this voice, I agree.

But it did cause concern when she lumped the red, the white, the black
    and the blue in with the rusty freighters and rolling hills that I've come
        to love.
And the concern brought forth lessons from my own teaching.
Stories of 15th century frontiersman tramping around the great
    wilderness, with nought even a flag to their name, for they had
        rejected even that.
And memories of bloodline relatives that fought for the type of
     independence that the declaration wasn't offering.
An independence from having unknown men, armed with bibles,
    translated to the 19th power, telling them what's "right" and "just".

Now here we are today, lying in a grave that is no longer fresh whose
    tombstone reads: Democracy.
All because we have not yet understood that a flag is not a country,
    but rather a symbol of control.

And a country!
Now there lies something to love.

And it's easiest to love in the labored breathing of a mountain top view,
   or in a toast from the top of a water tower overlooking the Mississippi.
It can be seen in the wave of a conductor as he pulls out of the yard.
Or heard in the hissing of his wheels when you have the moment of
    realization that, "Yes! Those trains are actually going somewhere!"

It can be grasped in the handshake of a homeless man, who is not
   unlike your forefathers.
A cast away, tramping about the wilderness with not even a flag or
    a prayer, but two hands that are ready to work for change.

I gave a homeless man a quarter yesterday,
   and he threw it in the wishing well.
I went into the store and bought him a sandwich.
I brought it out to the wishing well, and sat down next to him.
He stared into the copper and silver waters and said,
"Thanks, but that wasn't my wish."

We've been sitting on the edge of the top of the city, watching buildings
    scrape the sky.
The view is nice, but the ledge gives way.
Our assassins are moving in with smiles brother, so be careful
    who you hug.
It's been said that the only ones who know where the edge is have
    already gone over, and I disagree.
Time slows down when it's running out, and we can both feel the wind
    upon our faces.
There's nothing to get upset about brother.
This is only castles burning.

As the gusts blow in from the south, ***** bundles huddle on the shore.
And as they rest their flea-bitten heads, they dream of a time before this.
When they were thought above stray dogs.

Their waking hours focus on today.
They focus on the rocking steel, as it clinckety-clacks the past.
They focus on eating.
They focus on the sun.
Women are a luxury when you're stark, raving, mad.

Of course, they don't actually think about any of that.
No one ever thinks about their unconscious decisions.
But they act upon it.

They act upon growling stomachs with fine point sharpies put to
     dumpstered cardboard.
They act upon the holes in their jeans, following the sun like any
     right minded bird.
They'll follow it all the way to paradise.
Surrounded by pink Taffeta dresses and protective boyfriends.

They don't need to ask for a dance.
They already left these girls.
It was in another town, and they had different names.
But it was them.

The ones that not only lit up the room, but sent the message that
    you were somebody.
The ones who swore you were "the one" before leave with the one.
And that's okay.
Because maybe they never believed her anyways.
Maybe they never believed in "the one" let alone, "just one."

Regardless, that was in another time, at another place.
It's time to get focused.
It's time to get moving.
Only 10 more hours til we're hungry again.