Dear night sky,
I love to watch you,
some people don't like winter,
but I love winter nights,
when salted shapes fill the air,
and stormy summer nights,
when the negative space fills,
some rhythm to the madness,
for it is on the blackest of nights,
that I can see the brightest lights,
silver linings splattered across the sky,
for I'd rather have a tempest,
(there is unity in chaos)
than the dullness of peace,
and the burden of calm.

There are things better left unsaid.*

I would disagree,
it is through friction that change is born,
I say,
say it,
say it all,
bring all things to bear,
torn open before the world,
talk about homosexuality,
talk about ******,
talk about *******,
talk about ****,
talk about genocide,
talk about torture,
talk about principality,
talk about moral degradation,
talk about racism,
talk about suicide,
talk about obesity,
talk about puppet governments,
talk about corruption,
talk about self esteem,
talk about organized religion,
tell it to a world unwilling to listen,
a world that cannot handle it,
telling the truth will get you killed in this world,
I'm not talking about America,
despite popular belief,
there is a world beyond the wall,
secrecy is necessary in this twisted world,
discretion,
the man of action's only tool,
and sadly enough,
the only thing with the power to change the world,
is the gun,
so open wide citizen,
and bite the bullet.

Though my brothers starve,
I cannot do a thing,
despite any sacrifice,
no matter my achievement,
in spite of my feelings,
the world continues on,
dysfunctional as always,
always and forever,
the world will never fill with light,
nor will it ever be fully engulfed in darkness,
the only pathway to change is in numbers,
the kind of numbers that cannot be amassed,
a digit so unreasonable I can't help but sigh,
the world would change with the tides,
if not for the human heart,
a fickle mechanism,
it feels superficially for most part,
and ***** greedily at life,
rarely experiencing self-actualization,
if not for the human heart,
morality would decompose,
and rearrange in its purest form.

Love is the lifeblood of the home,
the root of passion,
love is the foundation of achievement,
the reason for sacrifice,
love is a collective experience,
a soldier's dying breath,
a painter's final stroke,
the thread in a doctors steady hand,
it is ever present.

Love begins early,
and ends late,
love infects us as children,
festers in our hearts as we age,
and blooms as we die,
our family at our side.

Love motivates all,
evades few,
starts wars,
and ends them just as quickly,
love is strength,
love is wisdom,
love is power,
love is the righteous intention,
that brings about peace.

Love is Alpha and Omega,
the beginning and the end,
the first and the last,
love powers the human apparatus,
love is the fabric of the spirit,
upon which we write our fate.

Here we are,
at the edge of the world,
the tides of an ancient sea crashing down,
the reddening tides wash away,
the fragile smiles of mankind,
blazing from the torrent,
man has turned his face,
defending his better side.
He does not fight,
he simply waits,
accepting the fate that is to come,
suffocation beneath the waves,
for what can he do?
He sees no other option,
for man is no visionary,
man is a creature of comfort,
wit has been replaced by social complacency,
social dependency,
social degradation,
social fixation,
the fighting spirit is lost to antiquity.

We don't fight against man,
but his nature,
not blood nor bone,
but against principalities,
against power,
against corruption,
against the bottom of the glass,
against human nature.

Civilization,
civilized,
man,
civilized man?

Nope.

A world of tolerance,
malice in disguise,
the pen is mightier than the sword?

Not a chance.

It is the blade that kills,
the razor that releases the flood,
for history is not written by the objective.
Words may trigger the safety,
but neither written nor spoken word,
will deflect the bullet,
ricochet will always claim its prize.
It is not great men that bring about change,
but men willing to change,
gun in hand,
sights lost in the moral periphery.
Liquidate modern ethics,
burn the fibers of morality,
enlist their disease.

Dear oppressors,
here's a secret,
the weak can **** too,
and the day will come when man does not rule,
but man is ruled,
and on that day,
**fight back.

Man is no marionette,
though he binds himself in string,
it seems this web is made of metal,
for it is difficult to cut,
his scissors lack an edge,
and his sharpening stone is so neat,
not a nick,
no particle out of place.
He cannot cast stones,
for granite is precious,
and his walls are made of glass,
man would be formidable if he were not a coward,
if only he knew which stones to throw,
selective regression perhaps?
At the least he might cut his cords,
with broken glass scattered at his feet.

Progress is not without sacrifice,
just as muscles tear with growth,
so I say do it,
steal the wild branch from the dove,
graft it to the tree,
for man is one half god,
and one half beast.