In the case of the 8-year-old little boy
The child who said he wanted to see
I am sorry I could not stop you, angel
From becoming part of this machine
To pull you from those cogs and screws
And cover your innocent ears
From the churning and turning of politics
Of old white men’s right-wing fears
In the case of the 8-year-old little boy
I know you want to fix the worlds scrapes
But the earth is not like your boo boo
And mommy’s desk doesn’t have enough tape
I am sorry I could not stop them, baby
From taking away your dreams
They would not listen to my screaming
They couldn’t hear mommy over the machine
In the case of the 8-year-old little boy
Don’t let that light die in your eyes    
I know the world can be a bully
But there was a time so was your mind  
I am sorry I could not stop them, sweetie
From saying all those bad things
An 8-year-old shouldn’t be hearing how
The government tears off angel wings.

My fear is like a worn blanket;
it keeps me bundled safe from cold,
Protects me from intruding talons
that reach to break frail bones.

Its edges are torn and tattered;
Hairy strings scratch at my throat.
I sometimes hold it all too tightly
and it wraps around my soul.

It sees that scary people scare me,
and knows that everyone is scary.
But this blanket isn’t just a haven,
the people claim it “unhealthy”.

They tear at fraying threads and seams
and I screech for them to stop.
It’s so comfortable and warm in here,
and it very rarely gets too hot.

I’ve grown accustomed to its feeling,
but the mad people do not care.
They tell me “Be more social.
The world shouldn’t scare you dear.”

But this itchy blanket shields my body
when people venture far too close.
When they try to shove ideals and dreams,
down an already suffocating throat.

Why can’t the scary people see
That this blanket is home, is mine?
They cause the frightful disrupt.
They make the blanket make me blind.

We are not our bodies
despite our bodies being us.
We know the large grand heavens
and our bodies know dirt earth.

As bodies can not hot hold us,
the souls we are will cry.
The mind we hold is different,
but together we are alive

Think it through, i plead to you,
we are not our minds.
They function as a separate being
you just have to see the signs.

Kneel and pray to the lord, sweet child
that you will one day see.
Your soul is stuck, trapped even,
within this monster being.

Because it can't be us
and we can not be it,
it pushes in so harshly
that it tears apart our spirit

Scared minds write the loudest and speak the least
they shut bloodshot eyes when the pen hits ink

Cross our heart and hope to die,
we will stick these needles in our eyes.
Create an earth with threads and pin,
visions dance through blood and pain.
Design this world my darling boy,
cut the cloth and make these toys.
Little humans and tiny bones,
malleable limbs and shiny thrones.
Make them selfish, make them cruel,
but none shall lie, not under your rule.
So as your blood makes rivers flow,
I suggest you learn to tightly sew.
For faulty words and drifter’s thoughts,
are something not all humans fought.

Fire blazed on from beneath the skin;
An ***** laced with flame and heat.
Burning my flesh from inside out,
Just to grow once more and repeat.

It wasn’t a problem in the start.
Just warmth inside my being.
But it soon blistered, burbled, and blubbed,
As my troubled heart melted.

It dripped its oozing mess in cracks,
And coated my broken bars.
Slipping across bones and tendons;
Traveling down my arms.

I didn’t want to complain,
as it seared my skin away.
I had no heart to simply cross;
Had no way to demonstrate.

So I collected all the gooey stuff;
Shoving its sticky self in a jar.
Wrapping it tightly with ribboned strings;
I named it simply, “heart”.

Talking of this roaring lion,
as it ruled my land of pride,
Would have no use to explain its flames.
Its high flying, licking tides.

So as I curled into my puddle of flames,
And my blistering body sank through floors.
People smiled as I talked on and on
About my favorite thing, bonfires.