It's as gorgeous to see the first stick with a sharp rock at the tip, as well as the last mirror polished heavily ornamented spear someone used to try and ****** another human in the name of that quest for greatness, and remember that somewhere in between Jesus Christ was nailed to a flagpole and stuck with the same instrument.
      "Lives Forever."
      To some rate we stopped making weapons to **** mankind, and started building weapons with the destructive power to **** entire branches of thought, philosophy, ideas, and religions. We committed to Hiroshima to tell the world, "Your future is ours." We committed to Iraq and Afghanistan to say, "Thou shalt not interfere with the moral ambiguity of the nuclear superpowers." We fight the idea of terror abroad with real weapons to unrighteously protect the idea of freedom here, dead black men and children in the streets, and in their own homes.
      
      I'm no longer surprised what little effort it took me to stay alive.

      A friend comes to me lovingly and spitefully because they are depressed. Life is hard. People are cold. Nearly every lover requires a stroke to the ego that tells them they are special or great. We build God in the people we ****, and we're baptized in our ******, not the draining of fluids, but the soft verse that "reminds" us we are "objectively good."

       "Pillowtalk; the prayer for forgiveness."
       She comes to me for forgiveness twice and disappears forever. Jacob calls it, "ghosting". It's casual, really.
       They say the universe is comprised of strings sometimes and it sounds like an idea writers can ******* into dust, but I think they do well connecting human bodies without; part metaphor, part science.
      I attend a party and flirt with a stranger. She says we met before. I make out with her friend. She appears out of nowhere. I flirt with her again. I make out with her friend again. Her friend rubs her hand over my pants around the outline of my steel hard **** and hangs her mouth open to girlishly illustrate shock at her own action. We don't ****.
      I finish twelve hours later into the mouth of an amateur **** artist/cam girl and kindergarten teacher for the second time. Her uber driver told her how ****** took the life of his wife and best friend. We laugh at this. We fall in love to some extent.
      I had a dream I saw my father in a hospital bed and told him I forgave him despite my actions. I wake up fully comprehending that he will die without a son.
     I write haiku for a year because everything else lacks structure.