I'm caught between being a man, having a dream, and being a fan.
A number one supporter for my brethren.
I can't get to them, long conversations about they day. I can't get to them, detailed descriptions about the way they changed from yesterday.
Think I spend too long scribbling notes and curating songs.
Chasing a dream where I'm standing on top of the world.
But my assigned seat is a pond.
Speaking for the stones, chirping crickets, and bones.
That one small step looks so far while sitting on comfortability's throne.
Distorting the stars that I'm shooting for.
My people need food and more.
I can't spend days shooting through the war for best writer you know.
Running over corpses who owe their lives to those who were there when the system bled.
Some thoughts slow to clear my head:
How many bullets can buy a loaf of bread?
See men have the option of 'by any means' when the children cry to be fed.
The option to paint our fist red...
But the feds are an issue, and I certainly wouldn’t be spared.
The fourth option of sitting on my hands would have me moving like i never cared.
And that's not what my soul and God said while i was scared looking into a future when i wasn't prepared.
They told me to keep writing about my dreams, so as a man...I'll say what they said.

So, in conclusion.
The captain decides who boards the ship.
Members aboard have to deal with the time spent breathing on a ship with...nakama.
Marines hop from ship to ship. I guess they put their hope in ship to ship.
Regardless, it's why they oppose us.
Our ideals.
Our operations.
Us.
Me.
Honestly, the sea is the sea. But people floating around me can't see. At least they perceive what need they believe.
But they do this upon the sea.
Hence, the sea is the sea.
Theus theory.
We need to breathe through mist, among other things.
Risks and other means.
To achieve being greater beings.
But it's okay not to reach these things.
As okay as your captain lives.
If he's okay with it, then let me believe.
In the option he receives... received.
I believe, I believe...
The AI would lead me to think.
I believe that i can be the captain I follow.
The captain who carries his past in hallow fragments where it shifts and borrows future estrangments to present arrangements
Whoa.
Maybe not estranged but rearranged into a casket of pure simple tamed dimples with silent whispers.
The problem : I talk.
After that, name baring, fear declaring, clear shattering, rear factored in sphere matter, and it appears that it'd peer shatter if they speak clatter neglecting clear factor's my fear is in the latter. But...what should matter if the kids don't matter?
I'm just saying that a generation is chasing the shape of Cleo Petra
And we can't be a certain guy with a sword.
Maybe he had a point in burning the books.
Maybe he had a point in falling in love.
Maybe he came from far and realized sometimes you need to stop things from peeling apart.
Through thorns and wrath.
Through an excruciating path.
You need to get to where it's art.
A land where the sea might part.
Two realities where life found a start.
I miss the sea more than i thought i would.
Being a pirate is more in the plot than it should.
Please don't let me be Misunderstood.
I only mean you have to get by doing what you can because you should.
Today's times prove that humans aren't all good.
In the media and...well, where they aren't good.
I wonder what my ancestors would say.
How they would feel.
What they'd see, when they see what's become of me.
Wait. What's the best way to give honor to history.
Without noting the misery in mysteries buried under history's nefarious missing delegates.
Never mind them, people's parents and...societal comparisons to superheroes with their caring emotional variants.
Making villains prepared for causing more emotional worse for wear.
Well, I'm under prepared.
A little bit scared. And over prepared for dares that come with... welll... assumptions for something better than for now.
As i clear and plow.
Sew seeds in a vow.
So respectfully, if the bulletproof vest is me, then I'm definitely sitting in the back, you'll see, protecting what rests with me when i breathe through peace's Symphony.
You know...to the sky, we're all standing upside down.
Clouds see right through the smiles finding frowns.
It really is a brighter day when the clouds don't make a sound.

The memories that play on repeat
Turn over sheets, creating irreparable incomplete illogical theories that i brand so selfishly in the way i display my humanity.
I'm not sure if that's worth abandoning when they are memories...
Memories that come from me.

So whisper me this
What need i speak
To convince thee
To remain with me
In this
After morn' ?
What would it take for you to bypass my scorn.
Resuscitate while the birds chirp and morn.
Another morning walking on thorns.
Facing spaces with their horns.
Faces breed from harm.
Traces in their songs. Of mornings beyond.
Its not complex unless you think them wrong.
Because my path is laced in that song.
Evidence of the times and what's going on.
I mean, they don't mean to sit with the devil forming bonds.
But he runs tests through our moms.
If you haven't noticed...
I have my own shade of horns.
They show when i hit you on the horn.
Harm is harm, thats the deal we made in our humane forms.
Your arms are in the wrong place, shaking hands selling our land to the past, while the future disappears...
At last...
Its gone past.

I'm going through a thing; where all my friends are parking on the brink. They sitting out my reality, they no longer message and ****.
I'm getting text from my employers. I'm moving like the Tom Sawyers. But they don't see that, I think. Denominator is me, and the chaos I drink.
It's the 64 percent in my skin.
I cannot lie that I'm in, a confined superficial type dream where I'm happy and grin. Because their presence is thin. They got weapons i mean, the way they leave me on seen.
Got me seeing in grim.
Their tendencies stings.
Guess that's just more *** for my drink, making me spin, so i won't have to think of their swing. They use a bat as a pin, let the sewing begin.
Do they know that their stitches are mean. Covering scars i ain't seen. I know that the peoblem's within. I know I'm the problem but then...why do I know so much about them?
Like a family friend, who's never welcome again.
I find it hard to pretend, while apologizing again.
For my perspective's bred sin.
I don't really miss them i mean...i know I'm lying by this.
But tell me where the point really is?
If we won't have love for each other's spouses and kids...

I wish i could explain myself
Fully explain myself...
Stop delivering pain to myself
Be deliberate, and save myself
Instead of filling out the page by myself
Speak in full sentence to you by myself
I'm tired of being lame by myself
Not interested in fame by myself
So the emotions on the page are for myself
I wish i could give them to you myself
Explain why i need all of you to myself
I sorta need saving from myself
And you know what else...
I'm getting used to it being me and myself.

It was in about grade 3 when i noticed
I lack an identity, and the way my personality eroded.
I dart around in the brackets my parents placed me in
How they raised me and
The dos and don'ts they praised me with.
How i follow their bandwidth.
Each footsept like they planned it.
It's why I'm demanding.
I need more because it wasn't exactly nurture they were handing..
All i know is, i don't fit human branding.
I'm standing with the outliers outside outlines in the midst of misunderstanding.
It was a crisis when i was ten then
It became titles for my pen, friend.
The underlying topic of my expression became my lack of my individual expression.
Need i mention, my only identifiable trait is I'll give all my attention, or sit like the rowdy kid in detention.
Unable to sit still and listen.
Final question:
Is my image so important because i failed the identity lesson, or am i just caught in that societal superficial weapon?

I hear the wind has begun blowing through your sails.
I hear your ship has reached enough shores, and that it departed from just as many.
I hear your mast has grown heavy, and your tasks are not plenty.
I hear the waves that called you to sea have begun to recede.
I hear that your hands have applauded at a vast amount of occasions.
I hear you've been introduced to enough people.
I hear that i won't be able to introduce you to my children.
I hear that you will not be able to save their lives as you've saved mine.
I hear that your crew has reduced to a navigator, first mate and Captain.
I saw that you are happy. Happily heading home into after life.

Words hold …
Weight
Power
Dictatorship
Emotion
Words hold the strength to ride upon the fiercely thrashing breaths of life.
As such they reign over the in-credible aspects of life that your conscious can take credit for.
Creating laws that your soul abides to unconditionally.
Laws that paint your mind as a revolutionary that needs to be  imprisoned. Intrusive thoughts can be charged with breaking and entering as well as intrusion.
A person’s entirety can be measured in about three words
I am alive
And
I will die.
Examples to mention a few. People have said that words are daggers.
However they could be shields. Guns. Flowers. Fire ice. Literally painful. Figuratively peaceful. Words could be hell. Words could be heaven.
They could be the insurmountable link connecting you, inseparably, to the person that your very soul belongs to.
They could be the embers that fall gracefully upon the dry leaves nested, inseparably, on the bridge burnt.
In different ways, shapes and notes…words distort space and time.
Words working for the ministry of Anxiety can reduce a room to nothing more than a skin suit with a vague promise of a chrome shaded window.
Words under employment in The Department of National Anger, turn seconds into islands spread across planets where each second is taken for granted as your anger festers and flourishes where planted
It's never taken a second for revolution to conquer.
Words weaponized wisely would win wars.

By :: Kuro Tsubame

it was a little while ago
yet it's been an eternity for sure
my breath had run it's course
I always end up sitting with my back against the mental walls
my costume cunningly crafted from a curator who habitually falls
through the inevitable tragedy that remains a part of me
fantastically prancing from my drought ridden skull holes.
i may not be the hurt man
because as a man, i need to understand that the world will not weep with me
regardless of how much i plead with thee for sympathy
all the world shall grant me is misery and illusory stories where I'm the villain and deserve mistreatment simply because i befriend my demons.
the alternative is being broken and defeated, left ****** without reason, while my soul is stolen from freedom.
so i cannot be hurt.
i will not be hurt.
i cannot be the hurt man.
my pain has no choice but to understand.

And since my soul is so willing to sew rhythms in copious ocean-esc villainous feelings
I'll be wing ridden to save myself from being pillaged
, see my soul's risen into old wisdom given by members hidden in the pages of some wing ridden angels when my mind's with them.
It's that kind of season, where you can get lost in the dreaming and break free without reason from a precinct with demons that stay feeding on the lifeless breathing ingrates that try to keep up with living.
It's vivid, how their horns and tails fidget when you're about to cheat on the misses
And rob a church before Christmas
Got you acting up, chasing down a witness
The things our souls have to witness.
I wish the victimizer had a fit bit on his cruel wrist; so that i could blame **** on his focus
Other wise there's no sense
In hurting a woman who gave no offence
They willing to jump an electric fence and fence with their daggers and blades. Slice up her dress turn her into a slave.
Leaving trauma delayed relayed in her mind as fact that she cannot be saved.
I'm afraid.
Why make a choice that'll make more graves?
Why make a kid in a world that won't be the same
A world where the only change is a different type of blame.
With a different gun to aim
I'm just saying
It's a shame, for humans and their vains laced with historical pains and strains of purple hearts i mean haze and strife
Basically smoking a joint laced with a knife
Twice.
One for the groom and one for the bride.
Because the child they couldn’t hide died in the street dealing with one Jackel and one Hide.
To be honest i probably would have tried
To join my child if God pulled them to his side.
Thus, my soul and mind are placed in his hands where i confide.