The non-overlapping magisterium,
a law stating that science and religion cannot intermix,
separate chords strung from the same cloth,
vines splitting at the intersection of faith and reason,
barbs flush against the skin of the common,
man thinks he learned,
but is far from wise.

To narrow your mind so steeply,
is to hold back all that you are,
to be cut off at the knee,
giving into a disposition for failure,
for often has both religion and science failed,
wars fought in the name of God and race,
non-existent color lines we paint on the inside of our sleeves.

Science does not represent evil,
and religion does not represent good,
they merely represent two sides of the same coin,
one the corporeal and the other the ethereal.

Aggression is as human as the need to breathe,
and kindness is a forced characteristic,
but do not cast aside the flame,
for love and fury are intertwined,
but do not confuse these with wrath and lust,
the difference is in motivation,
so if you seek truth,
stare both in the eye,
the material and transcendent,
God and Mammon,
the lord and the beast,
the father,
a representation of the good in the human heart,
hold close these virtues,
but do not suffocate them,
and if the father is good,
then the beast is the black sheep,
representing that darkness inherent in the heart of man,
this personification of evil,
a scapegoat,
although we are caught in the tempter's snare,
he is not the source,
and if he is your reflection,
love him first and cast him off second.

And if someone protests your belief in the abstract,
I say love them,
but I also say stand up,
and do what you feel is right,
and walk your own way,
not the path chosen for you.

To be human in a place filled with humanity is to be in constant conflict,
to be human is to be right and wrong,
almost always at the same time,
our ideals are collectively a lie,
to believe in one view is a fallacy,
for truth may lie in the collective,
or perhaps it is simply beyond our reach,
the left is self-righteous,
calling all others bigots,
the right is antiquated,
calling all others fools,
the middle is unsure,
knowing that both sides have merit,
but paying no heed to which pieces are true,
the rest of us don't have a clue,
we are not educated enough to care,
we know nothing and so we do not cast lots,
and truthfully this where the majority of the populous should stay,
and even those who have cast their hands into the mix should retreat,
for to truly know something is difficult,
and far beyond the meager grasp of man's tiny brain.

The poet is not a writer,
though she uses words,
the difference lies in the sentiment,
when he writes a book,
he writes it in order to educate and entertain,
when she writes poetry,
there is a fleck of the unseen,
there is a dream-like quality to the poem,
chaotic rhythm trying to make sense of the madness,
a maddening landscape as surreal and cerebral as Eloheim,
and still the poet persists,
but it is for this reason that understanding breaks down,
and while the poem is often misunderstood,
still she writes for others,
fighting desperately for a cure,
a cancer that all things dendritic cannot touch,
a wound that runs unabated through culture and the human imagination alike,
she writes poetry for future generations,
for her children to read,
leaving the fire lit aflame in the hearts of the next generation,
but each generation fewer and fewer take up the charge,
fighting the good fight is obsolete,
and so it is for the few to tacitly and tactically,
with a tactile touch,
fix the accumulation of those who came before.

I am not a poet,
I do not write for the greater good,
I write for myself,
for the well-being of the being in my head,
for the scrapping in the derelict corners of my mind,
grey matter splattered on false sentiments,
lies and truths mingled betwixt cortex and stem,
a tree burgeoning upward,
and so I do not write for you,
but for myself,
for I am no poet,
lost in rasping of my own words,
in tranquility I fester,
for I owe you nothing,
and from beneath that pretense,
I hang.

I would say that the death of the poet,
is the death of language,
though art fell victim long ago,
and so I find solace in its falling leaves.

Powerless
I can't
move
I can't
speak
I can't
stand
I can't
walk
I can't
cry
I can't
help
for the first time
I can't even...
help people.
Normally
I can
help others
even when
I feel bad myself
but now
I can't do anything
and it's not my fault
but I can't make myself believe that...