your heart is just a pump, love
and if I broke that
you’d be dead, but you’re not      ..

Only the day after tomorrow belongs to me.
Not the glory of now, nor its fleeting decree.
Today is a stage where the crowd roars blind,
But my name won’t bloom till I’ve left it behind.

They toast the noise, the shallow cheers,
But I’ll carve my truth through future years.
Not for applause in the flicker of flame,
But the whispers that follow the fading of fame.

Some are born posthumously, cursed or blessed.
Their breath begins after their body’s at rest.
They walk through life like ghosts in disguise,
Never seen clearly till they’re gone from our eyes.

Let me be buried in silence and doubt,
Where time is the judge and the truth is dug out.
For I am the storm in a slumbering sky,
The word they’ll remember the moment I die.

So speak not of triumph when clocks still tick.
Greatness is patient, and death is quick.
Only the day after tomorrow is mine.
Where forgotten seeds take root in time.

Medusa was wronged.
Killed because of a stupid god.
R@p&d and then thrown off.
Shamed to the end.
They made her.
Created her evil song.
Then Killed her because of another mans flaw.
Her killers were named gods,
while she sat alone surrounded by stone and rocks.
Why were we told,
she’s the monster.
The snake.
The killer and more.
We let the man make the story,
so the women could pay.
We believed with innocence,
because of her looks which were frayed.
Then when we learn the tale,
were told she did it on purpose.
“She was pretty, it’s her fault.”
“She seduced him, she was purposely hot.”
“She wanted the attention, it was consensual”
“What was she wearing?
It’s probably her fault.”
This story was told,
from the wrong point of view.
Medusa was just a girl,
r@p&d by some dude.
Blamed for his sin.
She paid his debt.
Then became a pawn in his stupid scheme.
Next the man wrote the story.
And she become his monster within.
So why do we let them tell our story’s?
Why do we fall into the morally wrong perspectives?
Medusa was a queen,
written by a beast.
That’s the whole story,
not one of some evil snake fiend.

You give an inch of empathy to a hidden religious majority
and they extend from the shadows to throw eras of baggage
with the camouflaged patterns of love stitched between them

Baggage of whispered systems; focus tested patriarchs
and Devils understood as your anxiety and depression
beautifully uncritical of the power structure we’re borne from

We speak together of ٭The good ones٭
The good Atheists, the good believers
Who pilot understanding above the spreading of hate

Yet, my father isn’t a fear-inbreeding tongue
My father isn’t an immaculate son
My father isn’t the centre of heart
My heart is a cruel and rejecting satan of doubt

Or, that’s how it feels
when you give an inch of empathy to a hidden religious majority
and I have to smile, nod at their nodding at me
I have to agree with their morals of unconditional love
but flinch when the eras of baggage are thrown
there at my feet. And Paul is a warm, unassuming elite

No one important
Home alone tonight
Grateful for movies
Just a little light

Grateful for my dad
Keep him, keep him strong
Steve Martin movie
Bruce Springsteen song

                     All along ...