.i'd call it as far as deciding upon: ethno-dysphoria... given that the lingua franca doesn't like to entertain hyphen "riddled" word compounds, and how german never bothered with the hyphen... i'm pretty much convinced that ethno-dysphoria exists... i guess only the jews are immune to this phenomenon, as... i'm pretty sure, the dutch are... i once overheard an american talk to a dutch girl before ******* her in some park in stockholm: who cares about the dutch? what? more the people, or the language? the english language doesn't give a **** about either language or the respective people utilizing it... oh i think ethno-dysphoria is real, more real than any gender-"dysphoria"... no ****-wit from the gender-"dysphoria" camp will **** you... but sure as pork-chops and potato crisps... an ethno-dysphoria case will, "somehow" become a jihadi.

oh sure, i'm all for "free speech",
until the time comes,
and it usually does,
around the same time,
that these advocates
                   are given a: script.
yeah:
when they are asked to read
a "typo" interface...
               when the, said,
"freedom", is allowed to be
scrutinized,
   under the barrage...
     of "mishandling" literacy...
most of these free speech advocates
do not welcome
                reading,
printed words...
                     co-defendants...
funny, this, "barometer"...
   you are given the freedon
to speak freely...
   let's see how free you are...
when being asked to:
     read "freely"...
      see the disparity?
   people don't have a freedom
of speech,
when they are exposed
to reading material...
    given that exposure to reading
material,
          doesn't coincide
with the final statement
      of the ecclesiastical class...
relieving their literacy monopoly...
i'll take two examples...
both are instances
of a freedom of speech advocates...
one is given a script to read,
the other is not given a script...
just like Kierkegaard predicted:
some people are
just more concerned with
a freedom to speak,
                         rahter than think...
i'd say:
   as much freedom as your
reading ability entitles you
to entertain...
          this, "freedom" of speech...
i'm freely allowed to breathe...
this cul de sac of freedoms...
  different matter
when you hear the so-called
advocates of "freedom"
recite a draft of reading...
god-forbid they begin
entertaining diacritical markers!
yet you notice the differnece
between free speech: ignored,
and the same freedom,
coinciding with an ability
to read?
                  free speech was,
once upon time depicted
by joyce and the plagiarized sartre:
andsoitwascocerningadepictionakintothis...

      never mind the
aesthetic constraints
of punctuation marks...
that's freedom...
breaking from aesthetic constraints
of encoded speech...
           you can hardly find
anything suspect,
within the concerns
of the pedantic community...

enlighten me...
   i'm pretty sure
the same assortment of freedoms,
associated with
the "confines" of a non-script,
would be missing,
should a script emerge,
and the whole lot of us
would be left,
with something,
akin to making a signature
akin to the X marker;

     who said anything about
stripping this freedom,
what i was implying was...
some of us care about
punctuation & conjunctions;
as free as you want to be...
point being:
this, "freedom" of speech...
infiltrated by written text,
being read (no variant
past participle spelling
variation outside of: red)...

    this "freedom",
is only a freedom,
when being freed from
reading, scripted, text;
now posit the same advocates
against
    a page of script...
freedom? what freedom?!
unless we all forget
to write,
     and join the simmering
**** of: the all of us,
in the blah blah parade...
maybe i'm being overtly
pedantic...
            a "freedom" of
speech would,
subsequently,
imply:
            no point
in clinging to scripted speech,
esp.,
with a decision to
impose punctuation markers.

Through dreamy landscapes
Mind travels
Between god
And the sky
My spirit revels
In new found freedom
Thought flight
Now safe
The barbed wire gone
No longer am I snagged
Upon the electric strands
Of fear
That held me
For so long.

down that old dirt road
all the way we go
flying and soaring on the radios bass
my best friends hair hitting me in the face

the sun sets in a pillar of coral light
enjoying inhaling breaths of dusty night
the power of the Sky turned upside down
upon her head I place an ethereal crown

I am heavy with the emptiness of freedon
all the way we go to finding our kingdom
we will rule the night with masks of neon
breathing in whispers, and simply lead on.

between the flashes and arms and legs
no one will have to feel the need to beg;
they will be experiencing the same ecstasy
open your minds and let them just breathe

Rewind and reverse to what we converse
all the way on our road paved with dirt
I don't really know whats at the end
all that matters is that I'm with my friends

there are no words, only feelings that cannot truely be shown
no one knows exactly how she feels, it makes her feel so
Alone
no one is there, no one is around
her heart is filled with something that has her
Confused
she has never felt this before
it Hurts
it makes her feel so
Sad so Sick
it brings tears to her eyes
it steals the energy from her body
to fuel its ever growing
Pain
it will not go away, no matter how hard she tries, tries to
Forget
yet it always finds a way to bring itself to the front of her mind
nagging her until she can take it no longer
she gives in, gives in to its unstoppable persistance
it drives her mad
it is always there, it never leaves her alone this feeling
it is as if its only objective is to break her down
tear down her will until it is absolutely nothing
until all that is left is a
Scared
Hurt
little girl alone, and afraid of the monsters lurking in the darkness
waiting, waiting for her to return to them
return to their grasps, for the little girl had left many years ago
yet they knew one day that she would come back to their lair
for the feeling growing in her heart was no match for the girl
they would go on playing their games
passing her back and forth, and she lets them
she waits until one day when their fun is over
and they are through
thoughts of freedon are the only things that keep her going
for without them she would be consumed
consumed by pain, and fear
she knows, knows that there are fields of daisy flowers
waiting for her to come to them
for one day she will be free

A cage, that was gold spun metal in the form of searing hot bars formed a gilded entrapment around the bird and its wings and in addition to the searing pain when ever it touched the bars, every time the anxious head tried to pop free it was stopped by barbs and neddles and thisles protruding everywhere. It didn't want to escape, it just wanted freedom. The ability to spread its wings and fly, the rush of the wind under soaring wings amd ruffled feathers,  the feeling of togetherness that gave, that's was it wanted, freedon.

No matter yours truly an atheist,
I consider myself fascinated with my ancestry
x cited regarding: upcoming
Jewish holiday fast approaching
by the bewitching hour which doth hold key
to Chamber Of Secrets to – me
analogous being Sorcerer's Apprentice
as you will read and see,
though impossible mission
to proffer extensive family tree.

Courtesy of Google, this grown man
linked in with tribes of Zion
indulged curiosity of mine
proudly harkens, (particularly
as he doth accumulate orbitz around the sun)
from Semitic ancestral line
surrounded by Jewish community
(countless years ago,
when we called Penn Valley
our place of residence)
off a street that arches
(like Noah’s bow sprint)
and named Woodbine.

Yet, he knows virtually nothing
about Jewish History
lets inquisitiveness wander
as a descendent from the “Lost Tribes Of Israel”
pondering how his life would be lived
if baptized in customs, faith, and religion
considered one of the oldest codified paradigms.
  
The first of the High Holy Days
or Yamim Nora'im ("Days of Awe")
celebrated on the first two days of Tishrei
the first day of the seventh month as "Zikhron Teru'ah"
("A memorial with the blowing of horns").

Rosh Hashanah is described as "the day of judgment"
(Yom ha-Din) and "the day of remembrance"
(Yom ha-Zikkaron)
occurs 163 days after the first day of Passover (Pesach)
beginning of Rosh Hashanah  
at sundown at the end of 29 Elul.

The evening before Rosh Hashanah day is known
as Erev Rosh Hashanah ("Rosh Hashanah eve").

On Rosh Hashanah day,
religious poems, called piyyuttim,
are added to the regular services.

A special prayer book,
the Mahzor is used
on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

This sacred day, the horn doth blow to chauffeur
(two precious daughters
now grown and autonomous
didst long since exit and escape
parental basket of deplorables,
where freedon beckoned,
when age of consent attained
exited out front door)
marginally linkedin with historical past
replete with tantalizing lore
where legions of commandments pour
and more relevant than ever
as global tempests roar
atrocity diminishing Hebraic peoples
courtesy incessant pograms and war.

Began at sunset
on Friday, Sept. 15,
and ends at sunset
on Sunday, Sept. 17.

No matter yours truly an atheist,
I consider myself
fascinated with my Semitic ancestry
(maybe unwittingly genealogically
linkedin with unsuspecting readers)
excited regarding: upcoming
Jewish holiday(s) fast approaching
by the bewitching hour,
which doth hold key
to Chamber Of Secrets to – me
analogous being Sorcerer's Apprentice
tendering, and kindling Goblet of Fire
as you will read and see,
though impossible mission
to proffer extensive family tree.

Courtesy of Google, this grown man
linkedin with tribes of Zion
indulged curiosity of mine
proudly harkens, (particularly
as he doth accumulate
orbitz around the sun)
from Semitic ancestral line
surrounded by Jewish community
(countless years ago,
when we called Penn Valley
our place of residence)
off a street that arched
(like Noah’s bow sprint)
and named Woodbine.

Yet, he knows virtually nothing
about Jewish History
lets inquisitiveness wander
as a descendent from
the “Lost Tribes Of Israel”
pondering how his life would be lived
if baptized in customs, faith, and religion
considered one of
the oldest codified paradigms.
  
The first of the High Holy Days
or Yamim Nora'im ("Days of Awe")
celebrated on the first two days of Tishrei
the first day of the
seventh month as "Zikhron Teru'ah"
("A memorial with the blowing of horns").

Rosh Hashanah is described
as "the day of judgment"
(Yom ha-Din) and
"the day of remembrance"
(Yom ha-Zikkaron)
occurs 163 days
after the first day of Passover (Pesach)
beginning of Rosh Hashanah  
at sundown at the end of 29 Elul.

The evening before
Rosh Hashanah day is known
as Erev Rosh Hashanah
("Rosh Hashanah eve").

On Rosh Hashanah day,
religious poems, called piyyuttim,
are added to the regular services.

A special prayer book,
the Mahzor is used
on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

This sacred day,
the horn doth blow to then chauffeur
(two precious daughters
now grown and autonomous
didst long since exit and escape
parental basket of deplorables,
where freedon beckoned,
when age of consent attained
exited – rather hightailed out front door)
marginally linkedin with historical past
replete with tantalizing lore,
where legions of commandments pour
and more relevant than ever
as global tempests roar
atrocity diminishing Hebraic peoples
courtesy incessant pograms and war.