Do I believe there is love?
Of course
Yet it is hard to say that I have experienced such a thing
And in that it is just as hard to try and justify to anyone that there is, in fact, love

I do not know what is sadder: That I have not experienced love or the way I am responsive to it

I know who I am supposed to love
But it is no love that I can tell

But this is the truth:
I know of hate
Hatred I believe in
Hatred I am all too familiar with

I suppose I could be so enveloped in my own self-hatred
Comparing all other things to me that I love almost anything and anyone

So from my conclusions I extract this:
Because I participate in the deepest and most strewn out of hate
I know that it exists
Therefore, love, comparative to my involvement in hate, can only lead me to an assumption:

If hatred exists, then so must love

It's hard for people to be true to themselves
*And even harder for them to be true to others.

It's hard being perfect in a world where it's physically impossible when everybody being flawed
Don't expect me to be your Jack's Mannequin
I have my flaws and i'm proud to be human
I wouldn't want to be someone who never has a defect at all
I want to come off as human and real for others
My ship usually sinks daily
But i'm the Captain so i got this
Or it will be a mental Lusitania
Causing me to prepare for war
Towards my conflicting thoughts
I won't wait like President Wilson
Action will be called upon
But i won't waste a second
I'm keeping this ship above water
My passengers will be safe
It's all on my shoulders
Keep your cannons holstered
We don't want this to really happen
Send your youth back home
They didn't want this.
I sure in hell didn't either.

let hands speak what mouths
   cannot prattle

                 let eyes dream what sleep
               renames with its tranquility

let love undo what
hate has wreaked and

                 let fingers saunter infinite
                 strides when feet sojourn

let this quiet bellow
a hundredfold of sound

                  and let soul dance when
                  we have departed,

enisled here underneath the
brow of a terminal day,
  
                  its numeral tasks unfold
                  in the night full of silences

and let the world feel the cold
of brookwater when we cannot swim—

I'll look for him
The park dweller
When our way of life
Is at an end

When all the stored
Material possessions
Don't mean anything

Just food and water
Shelter too
That will be all that matters

There was never much here
For us on this earth
We seemed out of time
Out of place
Wandering without desire

We had the sunrise
And the sunsets
The hours walking
And lounging about

He had a check
I think he received
For food

I think he is
A Vietnam veteran

Like me he enjoyed reading

And so we sat at the park
And ate red grapes

And watched the various
Mushroom clouds
As the atomic bombs
Struck downtown Los Angeles

"So I guess this is the end,"
I said

"Oh well," he said
"It was nice while it lasted"

I agreed

Words are the seeds of rebellion
A simple sentence may imprint a design of unrest
On the minds of the oppressed
And when watered by the unending tears
Of the motherless child
Of the widow or widower
These seeds spring eternal as weeds in the gardens of the oppressors
How quickly these starving plants grow
In the perceived beauty of the truly demented souls
Of those who used the corpses of the tormented as the topsoil
For their design of a utopia
The weeds of unrest will rise in the minds of those who have lost all
In a sacrifice for the comfort of those who walk above them
They will choke the oxygen
From the society
Who survives off of them
Those who carry the world on their backs
Words are the seeds of rebellion
And they are those who will stand
When these perverted gardens fall around them