They tell us not to look into the light.
But these are the same people that tell us
Not to worry about politics just yet,
While they pile onto an unbearable debt
That we will have to shoulder when we grow.
They tell us not to be so loud,
While they have stopped making noise
About things that mattered long ago,
Leaving those who can’t speak for themselves
To suffer injustice in silence.
They tell us not to try and change everything,
While the traditions they uphold
Are helping our society crumble.
They tell us not to aim so high,
While they settle for what the world
Has told them they deserve,
Has told them is safe and normal.
So I have something to tell them.
Are they listening? Yes, there you all are.
I dare you to look into the light.
I tell you not to look away as I do everything you’ve told me not to.
If this is breaking the rules, then rules were meant to be broken,
And broken doesn’t mean what I thought it did.
I will look into the light.
I’m not turning a blind eye anymore.
I’m going to seek the light, the truth, the complicated in the world.
Looking into the brightness will not blind me,
But blindly following a lost generation of settling,
Of deafening mediocrity and suffocating quiet,
Of hiding your own brightness
Would do worse than blind me.
It would **** me.
Or worse-
make me just like you.

Contentment is for people who are satisfied to stop thinking.
To turn off all those parts of your head
That constantly generate questions
And continuously probe the accepted.
To hush the cells jumping up and down
To show you a new way to approach a topic,
Begging you to acknowledge the incredible plans
That could be birthed from the impossible way
You see the ordinary.
But I have an obligation to my mind.
Yes, sometimes it feels more like shackles than duty,
And yes, sometimes I want to abandon my notepad and paper
On the bedside table to have a "me day"-
Whatever that's supposed to mean -
Or halt the carousel of whirling thoughts for a nap,
But I can't.
I will always be curious, at my roots.
I grow from the dedication to my thoughts, upward.
A tree straining towards the light of innovation.
Why would I forsake the places my thoughts can take me,
Or the adventures my pen can take in translating them.
For the gifts this head gives me,
I must always be on call, on edge, on fire.
Contentment: unattainable.
Even if it weren't it would interfere with the very process
That would allow me to derive what meaning lies in contentment.
So that's my secret.
The Hulk was always angry, which is how he controlled and dominated.
I'm always searching, which is how I find and thrive.
I can't drown out my thoughts just to soak up the sun.
That's not contentment: that's complacency.
And complacency is not in my vocabulary.
How funny-
I am content with losing that one word
For the chance to be brilliant.

I know you.

Sitting behind a screen in your room,
Sipping in the shadows of a coffee shop.
iPhone, iPad, iAm "Anonymous".

The most dangerous word you can be labeled,
The most double-edged of weapons-
Anonymous.

You're never really as untraceable
As the cleared browser history says you are,
Never as untraceable as the chain of destruction you cause is traceable.

You're never really as invisible
As the checked box lets you think you are,
Never as invisible as the scars you direct a hand to make are visible.

One word can't be all that.
Anonymous can't be so dangerous.
Some clicks on a keyboard can't be so devastating.

There's a reason it used to be difficult to avoid responsibility.
Because responsibility for your words, for what you cause,
Is what allows you to see a few steps ahead.

Your signature is what allows you to learn from mistakes,
To vow after you've learned the hard way to think before you act.
To see that those words have two names attached to them now.

The writer, and the subject.
Two traceable, visible people.
Two hearts beating and breathing, now connected.

Anonymous constructs a wall between action and reaction.
It robs you of responsibility.
Yes, responsibility is a prized possession, there to teach and show.

Anonymous allows you to settle.
It robs you of the greater person you could become.
Yes, your future holds more than this, there beyond the wall of cyber bulling.

I hate that I was once Anonymous like you.
I hate that I unknowingly controlled the strings
Of a self-destructive marionette hand miles away.

But I don't hate you. Because I know you.
I know you are more than the mistakes you've made behind that screen.
I know you are more than Anonymous.

So prove it.

He told us the truth.
Writing isn't so hard, really.
You just sit with a pen and paper,
And bleed.
Maybe pounding my head
Isn't the right way to elicit bleeding.
But it did bring the kind of headache
That reminded me what I had to bleed for in the first place.
White House.
White papers.
Black suits.
Black president.
For change.
No better.
They pretend to have a headache, but their incompetence leaves us with headaches we're too young and shiny to deserve.
Aren't we?
Filled up
With life,
Potential, hope.
Why do we shoulder their burden?  
The black suits in the white house made their own headache.
It doesn't matter to us.
Until it does.
Stimulus.
Filibuster.
Health-care.
Bail-out.
Drowned-out.
S­hut-down.
Shout-down.
Bring-us-down.
We could be on our way to the top.
Mess-up.
Then complain about the headache it brings them.
What about us?
Because we're the ones affected.
Then is the worst part.
They do it frighteningly quick.
So easy, too.
Give-up ,
And leave for us to
Fix-up.
We have to shout.
Make you listen.
Stand-up.
One-two.
Thousands, millions.
Make them listen.
March-up.
Three-four.
Slogans, protests.
Make them change.
Head-up.
Five-Six.
Defeat, Regret.
See the impossibility.
Sit-down.
Seven-eight.
They won't listen.
**** the system.
**** the suits.
**** the house.
**** growing up.
Because you know,
Now we're grown.
So this is the headache
They talked about.
So this is why
We spill our blood.
Where's the cancel button?
How to delete?
It's a cycle,
Don't you see.
You can't wipe the memory.
Why we thought
We could ever get rid
Of the headache…
Beats me.

If you counted up all the seconds we spent tweeting,
All the minutes  we spent repeating,
All the hours we spent faking this thing-
"#YOLO", we call it.
If all 7 billion of us added up,
How many lives could we make
With the tick-tocks we spent talking about their brevity?
How many lives could we have saved, changed, re-arranged
With the attitude of using that one life to make a difference,
Instead of abusing the battle cry of a short life to do useless, irresponsible ****.
Calories, pranks, drugs, lust, rebellion.
Do you feel stupid for the things you bought with YOLO now?
'Cause you got it wrong.
Your life will flash before your eyes,
But will yours be worth watching?
It all counts.
But did you make it count?

"Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving -
It does not matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come,
Even if you have broken your vow a thousand times.
Come, yet again, come."
-Rumi

Lover of Leaving.
I wonder where that comes from.
Abandoning ideas,
or the idea of abandoning people.

It's so hard to tell
What I believe-
Because I'm smart, and educated, right?
And what I was just desperate to believe-
Because when you want a quick fix bad enough, isn't the shortcut subconscious?
How can you tell
What they believed-
Because they wore swastikas, and killed millions of innocents, you know?
And what they were just desperate to believe-
Because when you're ruled by destitution and terror, isn't the conformity subconscious?

They've always told you to "pick your battles".
But I'm coming to disagree with that whole concept.
Here's to hoping you will too.

                                                        New­sflash.
                                                         ­     Your choice isn't which battle to fight.
                                                                ­      Never was.

Because your choice was yesterday,
   and the day before that,
      and the year before that.

                                                          ­                                   Because your time to choose was then,
                                                           ­                                     when you decided your values
                                                                ­                                   and determined where you stand.

                                                       From there,
                                    your battles are clear,
                and you don't get to pick them.

                                                               ­                To believe in something and not
                                                                ­                                 fight for it
                                                                ­                is the highest form of falsehood.

            Once you know where you stand,
you fight the battles coming your way,
                          no second thought.

                                              So when they they tell you to pick your battles,
                                                        ­            tell them to step aside,
                                                           show them how little they know.

                                           How duped they will feel,
           finding out the war began a long time ago,
                          and you're coming out ahead.

                                                         ­   Find your place on the battlefield,
                                                    ­              not your place in a society
                                                       that demands order with trembling lips.

                                                          ­                  See.
                                          ­                                       You're already in this war,
                                                            ­                               armed and ready.

You're the commander.
Pick your stance.
But never your battles.

I wonder
what
would
happen,

If our computers
could process
please
and
thank you.

Would a little
southern hospitality
solve
the
glitch-

Would a
teaspoon of humanity
melt
cold
metal.

Is there
more power to
simply
giving
thanks,

Than the
modern age
has
found
true.

Sorry, but
it's just sometimes,
I
just
wonder.

Please
and
Thank You.

"Oh, they aren't listening to the words.
They just like the beat."

I don't know why you aren't listening to me,
when I tell you that they do.
There's no way they can't.

I don't know how you continue to turn a blind eye,
while your nine year olds mouth the words "*******"
as they jump around on the dance floor.

You doing nothing
is doing serious damage.

They will grow up believing that if the words
that turn women into objects were so wrong,
Mom would have stopped them.

The will grow up thinking that if they were really worth
more than what records say they are,
You would have told them.

They aren't listening to the words.
The words are raising them.