On the far edge of the world there are
fanatics of many minds and religions.
They have uninteresting histories,
jejune existences, and distorted ideas of nature.

Some are belligerent, felony-friendly foreigners.
I’ve never given them a single thought,
because they're nothing to me.

They’re insignificant—living curiosities
and I grant them no more sympathy
than I would a flock of wild birds.

Of course, I’d never wish to harm wild birds
unless they had the wherewithal to attack me,
in inimitable, Hitchcock style.
.
.
Songs for this:
Kashmir by  by Toni Jevicky
broken people by narcissists cookbook
Bring Me to Silence (Audiotree Live) by Fievel Is Glauque

In the fold of night
Whispered dreams upon the stars
Gently guide my heart

My heart knows no stopping
it pulls through

within the trinity of time
from the green beginning
of my fate, getting myself
on my feet

with passion and jumping back
into the stream of experiences
swimming a stroke every now
and then, drifting along a little

and letting a lot pass by
beauty and cruelty
waves of feelings and
caresses of life

under the foam of my consciousness
the white soul of time

like a fitted cotton sheet
tucked inside the hall closet,
stacked neat on the
bottom with the pillow

cases. She spread out
like a butterfly emerging
from her chrysalis and flew
off into the distance. I watched

her airborne. And I stood forlorn
at how she unfolded. I liked her
tight and molded when I had her
in my hand. But she had her

plans. I was rooted to
my yard like the big oak tree,
stripped of leaves in winter,
with bark splintered. She

unfolded like a picnic blanket on
a sunny day. People gathered
to eat and drink and celebrate. And I
was not invited. I sat nil and slighted.

I pray in whispers
not because I’m shy,
but because silence
seems to listen better than people.

Sometimes,
I think God forgets
which room I’m in.
Or maybe He knocked
when I wasn’t brave enough
to answer.

The holy books say
He’s everywhere,
but some days,
I only find Him
in the ache behind my ribs.

I light candles
for things I’ve stopped asking for.
Hope burns slower
when it’s quiet.

I’ve fasted,
knelt,
cried into pillowcases
instead of altars—
but maybe they’re the same thing.

Faith, to me,
isn't certainty.
It's choosing to believe
while still bleeding doubt.

where,honey &lemon
  is replacing the
flowersome air,where
the sea is not half
   as sugary as

this toothache way
   I find Myself in.

see,I want the some
-things
       (I want all the
  little somethings)
but nothing & nothing
   is what I,ve found.

is relief grown
in riverbeds,where   is
  content & her litter
of reminders that,'every
thing    will be   okay?

one of My
       little somethings
,to Me,       shows I am
okay, on board&sailing
           for utopia.