sitting down drawing circles on sand
by the ocean for 16 years without disturbances,
save a few hefty feet trampling down sand castles
but then one day something happened
and an overwhelming wave comes hurling itself at you,
and you have no escape plan despite living on the sand all your life
the wave comes bearing galaxies from atlantis,
blinding starlight, and a myriad perfect seashells.
it feels like an eternity,
being consumed by the wave as you're given
a tour of every attraction there is,
receiving free samples every now and then.
you succumb to the star dust,
enthralling you like a child at disneyland,
or tumblr teens on the fourth of july.
it feels like you're the only one lucky enough
to witness this spectacle, and you're marvelling
marvelling
marvelling
marvelling
marvel-
.
.
.
.
.
no air
you're gasping
muddy
sand in your eyes
and through the excruciating discomfort,
you see a hundred other silhouettes looking back at you.
---;
this is how it was, loving him briefly.
and this will stare him in the face,
but perhaps his eyes, too, full of sand
will stare right back at me
“silhouettes” he'll say
“silhouettes are what make my day”

Back in the twenty first century
The world was in chaos.
There was no World Gov.
Democracy was limited to certain “Nations”
As such territories were called.
(We were so territorial then).

Millions died of malnutrition
In places called “Asia”, “Africa” and elsewhere.
Factions fought for land, resources
And “Religious” beliefs
That I will describe to you later.

In those days people were persecuted
For their race, gender
And any way in which they differed from “the norm”.

Anyone who spoke up against injustice
And countless other wrongs
Was branded “Un-PC”
Humiliated
Before his (or her) peers.

Those were troubled times,
Back in those “frontier days”.
Be thankful we are now civilised:
United Human Race,
Worldwide Democracy,
People Loving,
Compassionate
For the Good of All.

Welcome to my history class.
Let us learn from our mistakes,
And never repeat them.

Paul Butters

the clouds are my eyes
and the raindrops are my tears.
do you hear my cries?

An explosion of art in my soul,
from tragedy I birth a masterpiece
as this world hoards disorder,

You will not make a madhouse out of me,
you will not haunt me when
everything falls apart,
I will not see the "us" in rust,
from rust, the world implodes
but from the rust, I grow

There is chaos out there,
and sometimes, I find it hard
to just float and breathe,
I find it hard to not drown in the noise,
I find it hard to determine
what I should perceive,

And at times, I let
my mind bury me in ashes,
I let you bury me in ashes,
but watch me strike a match
on all the wasted anger and anguish;
I don't think you can defeat me.
There are no weapons
to knock down my walls of chaos.

It's closing in
once again
water falls
leaves descend.

Night becomes darker
light deprived of its ember
fumbling around, on knees
struggles getting harder.