An odyssey of truth
across the seven seas.
An adventure of a lifetime,
take my hand and come with me!

I have a ship named Censor,
I'll navigate her wheel.
I'm the Captain of her anchor,
the master of ideas.

Perception is her mascot,
conscience is her sail.
A religion navigates
a balance on the scale.

Her starboard gravity
will tell you what to know.
Her mesmorizing port
will show you where to go.

They both conceal the waves
to capsize our ideas.
An agenda of our thought
to break a bending will.

The truth is just a scratch,
upon her glossy surface.
Concealing all the bias
will always serve a purpose.

I’m going to catch
the biggest one yet;
my headline is tabloid
and I’m all set.

I’ll sit here and wait
for you to scroll over.
Don’t be afraid,
scroll a little closer.

My ridiculous title
will reel you in.
The sleight of hand
is the deadliest of sins.

You click my bait,
caught in my trap,
reading through
each paragraph.

Integrity is gone.
It’s all about numbers.
A mouse click reveals
what it uncovers.

It can’t rain all the time
the clouds will make room
for colors to seep through
this gloomy afternoon.

A bow of colors
provided by the sun
follow the rain clouds
after they are done.

Red, green, blue
and everything in between.
Prisms of marvel
for all our eyes to see.

You can’t have colors
without the grey days.
Rainbows will appear,
they always find a way.

My tiny little atom
sitting all alone.
This tiny little atom
make up my chromosomes.

Another little atom
will form a molecule.
More will come together
and make a soluble.

The building blocks of life
with electrons spinning round
will latch on to each other
forming chemical compounds.

Revolution is calling.
The guillotine responds
to his list of names,
it called upon.

Spewing propaganda,
he doesn’t hold back.
Pen in hand
with a medicated bath.

Drawing out anger
through a written word.
A Radicalization
that was never heard.

Death is the answer,
it sets us free.
A decapitated head
for liberty.

The uprising continued
just as he planned,
for revolution ends
where it began.

My aged calloused sweetheart,
is not what it used to be.
The harden tissue’s numb
but, remains sugary sweet.

The bitter licorice years
did not alter any flavor.
The black root didn’t spoil
my saccharine behavior.

The lemon drop months
did not make me sour.
My face did not pucker
with each ****-full hour.

My sweetheart remained sweet
and it will always be.
This world will never change
my sugary pulse beneath.

A little irony goes a long way.
Give me a mile
and I’ll have something to say.

But I’m all out of irony.
My pockets are bare.
Are you even listening?
Do you even care?

Do you have some to lend?
I could use some right now.
My field has gone stale
I have no row to plow.

I’m accepting donations.
I am reaching out,
for someone to hydrate
my ironic drought.