Using the 1% of those who got out of
the violent act of poverty
at the expense of billionaires
and taxpayer payed subsidies

Yes, they use the most pretentious
of our few escapees
they become a mouthpiece
to deny the facts researched
by actual experts

Truth is
what is powerful

There's no escape
from the ruler's messages
There's no escape from miseducation

The truth's not in the details
it's in the attitude
with which you start the methodology
Examine historiography
and you'll know
you don't really know
Still, the fault of teleology
is more important than
the happenings you use to defend your point
Cause the details your viewpoint binds you to
show that irrationalities cloud our brains
There's no fine line to reason
Isaac Newton was afraid of humans
and spent most his time as an alchemist
We still believe in some magick
but in its waning days
people are getting mad trying to find
other paths of core thinking
One's driving force
and escape from fearing death
No, not even science can satisfy the why
but those who think it can
contribute to the scary times
****** and the Nazis
and the all encompassing
forgetting of future atrocities
The 20th Century was
the most violent of centuries

We're both the same element
but she's wildfire
and I'm a weapons maker
the tempered blacksmith
too distant in his own work
over planning a "good use"
for all my passions

I presumed to craft a spear
150,000 ft at least
I'll **** and **** away in silence
sipping coffee in my low hearth haven
In hopes you wonder how I really feel
and perhaps spill fire *****-nilly
embers annoying friends and family
catch the drapes inadvertently

Will this distance vow we agreed upon without metaphor
be mended through silent adhering
Or is the Lady of the Ram waiting
for a golden armor gesture
Where I appear unannounced
and we'll turn your wild fire into iron flowers

For now, I stare at my forge
going blind.

Back to the scrawling pad
a cheap red notebook
wide ruled, with the perforated pages in it
in case I wanna punch one out easily
Those moleskin daze were measly
Thinking I'm creative and potent
but spending two years
to fill those tiny pages
Please, help me
reinvent the feel and manifest it
to real, accomplishment
Songs, verse, or vice grip words
to change a nation with
- to start a new nation with
Bokonon Bhikkhu
hurling Pikachus down from Mt. Olympus
land on the concrete with lemming splat
Get the metaphor?
I don't. Make your own up
I just an absurdest
A poor boy humming Queen
and writing rap atrocities
Nah, the rap "apocalypse"
minus all the apostrophes
Write so much anything anyone says
from now until oblivion
was just quoting me!

Aye, so I feel down
so  like any societally inept man throughout history
I resign to write self-assuring philosophy

Whole books of advice, not taken  
to scorn those who make my mistakes
I even quote my dead depressed brothers
to bestow a false valid weight

But more than anything at all,
I think Nietzsche was most right;
all us philosophers
who shrugged off all heaven or hope
retreat to our own arrogant plan
that we figured it all out

The job's rotten, still.
So many days past writing on pages like these.
Hoping for the best,
full of angst towards schooling and lowly positions.
Now school's over, and I left old jobs,
but the lowliness takes new form.

I left so many of yous there,
but don't look at me all forlorn.
I finished my share of the toil toll;
I went to school, I went into debt,
without even buying a home,
and most important of all,
I only climbed a rung.

I wish I could walk into that retail barn with unfake flair.
Show everyone I'm doing something I loved
and always talked about;
museum work, teaching, or traveling.
Even those "choices" are too general.
Getting over 12 bucks an hour's half the battle.
I'm only almost there, again.

Emily and I share a birthday
the odds of course which, are 1 in 365
I wonder if she would pay it any mind
if I were to relay that fact to her
in time traveling letters

We'd diss the Romantics
in our clinging to things old fashioned
But perhaps in some sort of
airy heaven mystic light
feather backed eunuchs deemed
our mutual yearly markers Holy

We share introversions too
So I know not to peak behind her cloudy veil
when it's my turn to hike the steps
of the colossal celestial mansion  
I'll just listen to see if you have a Boston accent
or send soaring aeroplanes, if you prefer
with fresh ink drops sliding off into sky

Before I go up there, I may ask my sister too
to burn all my poems, delete them also
Wondering when you request'd the same
did you not care 'bout words lost to air?