This world wasn't meant for me.
To be all that you can be
means you must give in
to giving up one of your desires.

When you can feel your heart
by touching your wrist
you're able to close your eyes
and feel the Earth spin.

That is transcendence.

That is comprehension.

It's what cathartic energy
once was, before sacrifice was
essential for happiness.

This world hasn't accepted me.
I've only learned to
tolerate injustice and
repetitive wrongdoings
that history has tried
to educate the masses with.

They're written in
differing languages and
many books; books that implore
morals and ethics,
but place brothers and sisters
into groups of people
destined to fail.

Simply because
minor differences are easier
to swallow than
major similarities.

That's why this world isn't
meant for me, or you.

We sacrifice
our lungs for shelter,
and our hearts for love.

The need to stare through people
is leaving my eyes crossed,
faster than lines on paper.

Left is the desire to scratch
this itch; an exasperating need
to mark one more line.

What sweet intent leads to
discretionary electrical impulse
that grasps the heart tight,
and stonewalls a swallow.
To recall warm beams of light,
with internal engaging delight,
watching nature bend
towards the will of the sun.

               A Push
A Pull

Gravity
displaying its omnipresence.
Invisible forces
envelope our globe.
Dancing in little corners,
from time to time,
as if meant to
find a lone soul.

A private affair.

To stare at,
not through.
A normalcy embellished
as a miracle,
made for you.

Since adolescence
I have been an insomniac,
something sought after
these days,
by ignorance
masquerading itself as
open-mindedness.

An hour to me is not an hour to you.
The same standards apply,
only because those
restrictions can not be lifted.
Such a beautiful tragedy,
concerning a man made
mandate,
that dictates calendar years
and sixty second intervals.

The sound a scribble makes
at three in the morning is
a continuing story of dark circles
and ever slowly forming indentations
that are everlasting countenances.
The sound dead leaves make
as they're stepped on quickly
shows a path yet to be discovered,
leading to an uncovered face formed
by bark, mottled with sweat
as sweet as syrup.

A petrified face.
Covering a worn sponge.
One willing to grow and absorb.
A tired brain.
Swimming in Dextromethorphan.
Controlling a hand
that extends to yawn.

After counting
sixty sheep,
I'll start my next interval.
One nod to know
it worked.

A person must judge another by their character. Ignorance and bias media make issues out of race. If you are a person that does not understand any movement, then most likely you have never stood up for anything in your life. It is sad that divisions are at play between people when we are all the same. We are humans. Your ***, race, or theology does not matter. What does matter is the fact that people come from different backgrounds. That is the only difference between people. You do not choose your parents. You do not choose your upbringing. A child that is handed everything will not understand the life a child has that only knows struggle. If you do not understand socioeconomic disparity and the reasons why they are in place, you will not understand injustice on a institutional level. When you see other races talking about ideologies such as "white privilege" it is completely justified because there are situations that a white man may not face ever in his lifetime, but a minority is aware of and taught at an early age because they will certainly come across it. The beauty of this country is being able to have an opinion without the fear of consequence, but understand that basic "Rights" are a fallacy. A right can be taken away. That in and of itself is a privilege. There is too much complacency within this generation and ones before it. You must have convictions. You must have beliefs that are not only based around religious faith, but the act of altruism. Does a person need to label something to reach a level a comfortability? No, not at all. That is a common misinterpretation of ignorance, when it is plainly a way to state that knowing what something is does not have to be explained. I'm not sure if some think education stops when schooling is finished, but it's not. And as much as people want to talk about this country and others falling to the wayside, it is because of inaction and not being able to unify and have empathy for others. Your life is your own, but to secure a future and continue progression we must all stand together and not be presumptuous, but rather be protective of community and critical thinking. There are too many losers in the system, and they aren't minorities, they're people not properly educated. You can't erase history as easy as you can erase atrocities that aren't just. Don't put your trust in your government, but your neighbors. But that doesn't mean that you should also exclude social programs that are needed as much as oxygen. This is the life you are given, and it is you decision to stand up or sit down. And if you do stand up, do it for the right reason: valuing life. If this message does not resonate with you, we have nothing in common, and that's fine, but don't talk about current events or social problems that are beyond your comprehension.

- Charlie

Inward apathy is not
to be confused with
sociopathic credence.
It's a blade held to the throat
of the man that wields it.
Never would the cold steel touch
the person who thinks of suicide
as cowardice, but believes bravery
to be disillusionment in the form
of medication, or speaking up and out
offering solutions to problems
that they do not know the variables
that come along with it.

How many teeth make up a smile?
How many lines form a frown?
If lines are infinite,
what does that tell you about
an expression that is countered by
obligatory inquisitive ambivalence.

Shoulders are for tears.
Spines are for intrepidness.
Skin is layered; tough and thick
no matter benevolent or malevolent,
a person's love is misconstrued
as skin deep, albeit it is formed
between synapses.

It's a spark, a fire, the intuition
to never say goodbye
and ignore accountability.

I could not produce a perfect sentence,
so instead I killed my family.
Intricate webs woven,
and little seeds planted.
Words that will not touch a page
let loose a vindictive voice.
That's why your inner voice
finds words like onomatopoeia funny;
it's sharp.

As you project your frustration
into a headache, it passes along.
You try to remember if your family
history has been linked to cancer.

Yet some people will say:
Words Don't Hurt.
But they know.
Because they once
had families, too.