I see only star spangle stripes mangled in the pursuit of more stuff.
****** and mayhem, bald strongman wannabe dictator, stealing from Orwell’s playbook, even though he never read it.
There is no art only orange skin sinking as compassion keeps on shrinking while loved one go on shrieking sobbing and speaking seeking some sort of justices for those they love.
There is no hope except a broken heart torn apart till his kindness turns to rage, till the pain of others turns him to the hate of those who hurt and cover what they do with the camouflage of a flag and god.
Today, I am gleeful smirking with evil thoughts toward a human I abhor, because kindness seams to be a weakness I don’t need.
Dreams are just particles of dust, passing in the torrential winds.
I do not know if I will ever be the man of hopeful mercy that used to write starlight and spaceship poetry.
Especially, when I want to see the president die horribly.