[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero

It is time to revolutionize education
Because I am tired of memorization
Creation of nothing but the same
Desks behind desks
Staring at a black board
Bored of all the information
Citation after citation
And all for what
I’m tired of education
Because I don’t learn anything
Teachers preach
But no students learn
We try to earn the grade
But we only play
Play the game of school
This “learning” should be a tool
But instead were only being taught
How to memorize
To categorize
And to analyze
Words
Formulas
And answers
Never
Taught information
True helpful
Real world stuff
That is enjoyable
In the game of school the rules are simple
Stay quite unless spoken to
Sit down until forced to stand
Most importantly
Having an opinion is okay
As long as it matches the teachers
When we are born the first things we learn are to stand up and speak
As soon as education age hits us
We learn how to sit and shut up
To empty our individual cup
To listen and abide
To hide
hide opinions and stand aside
“because I am a teachers and this is education
and what I say goes
why
because I said so”
I’m tired of learning how to be normal
Because I want to learn how to be a bad ***
So why can’t I
And I don’t want a hundred for coloring in the lines
I want a zero for coloring everything but
Education is in groups
Smart
Average
And stupid
Not to be cruel
But its true
And believe me
You are judged on it too
But when looked at as individuals
-Something education discourages-
Everyone as smart
Because the only person you’re being compared to is yourself
That education
No any two snowflakes are the exact same
And no any two people learn the exact same
We have four different classes
English
Math
Science
And History
Four periods of sitting through plenty of worthless information
I wont listen to anyways so why force me into it
If I’m not interested
Why bother
Passion based learning is what we need
So I’m planting the seed
Seed of thought
In the minds of those who have power
Power to change education  
To a passion based formation
I will no longer allow educations dictation
To control me
It’s now time to see
What “Education” could really do for me
I guess I'm not here to make much sense
but now is the time for the system to pay their rent
rental space in my mind
consuming time
thoughts that are no longer mine
Pressed into my brain this idea of education
running this **** like some federation
can't get thoughts in between regurgitated words and facts
Well I think my brain has hit the max
Maximum capacity for the ******* you're spewing
I will no longer be chewing
your lies and conformity
treating different learning like a deformity
No longer an idea of teaching
but memorization
words on a page
Here in this developmental stage
all because they are going through some 'phase'
that makes them stupid
Most of us are fluent
So don't tell me I'm not smart
because I don't know the periodic table by heart
because I'm not well versed in trail of the court
don't tell me I'm stupid
Just because I'm human
That's something that is overlooked
by the ones forcing you to study the books
Unable to see there is something to be said about knowledge of life
Or even the knowledge
not to get
pushed over the edge
Because sometimes enough is enough
And believe me
this "education" **** *****

Write lyrics like spreadsheets with number crunching
Calculate the isotopes
numerical accuracy in the vein of vain attempts to overcome
the show off tendencies of artist who exhibit flow to illicit
concern about existence beyond what they can see of pedagogical poetry
more concerned with numbers and patterns
who gives a **** what the stress is on the vowel in the third stanza  
lyrically despondent personal correspondents for a publication that says
more about what you know than what you feel
and who you are
computer says no, statistically impossible, synaptic haiku
five seven five
musical ronin
go go gadget of talent
extend-o-pole and flying nimbus as you train like son-goku
hyperbolic chamber where time is an illusion only to collapse
true Saiyans are warriors from the womb until death and after
over nine thousand and the scanner short circuits
write on the clouds with light so hot that it burns on thought
not contact
no constants, just variables, electron microscopes to try and hear the angels sing.
Large Hadrons small dreams, no love, just roman numerals
XIV, ***, Blood transfusions in the realm of “O Positive” and you're just a pessimist, negative Nancy at the end of evolution
Flesh and bone as a tent in your double helix of a genome,
flesh like clay in the hands of some master
but you know no master
no nations, under no gods but Darwin
all 23 chromosome pairs making 46 parts of your brain
screaming neurons fire
WRITE
WHAT
YOU
ARE
If you should so choose as to end not with a bang but a whimper
then your memory is forfeit
contribute in some meaningful semblance of sarcasm and sinsethesia with anesthetic medications of pop remedies and voided memories
of sinthesisia
Smell the colours and taste the sounds of pen on paper
when you never own a pen or a pad
just a bright white rectangle you stare at for hours on end
No thoughts just Digg and Reddit
your only contributions a thumbs up or a red thumbs down
like buttons
but no dislike, because if you've got nothing nice to say
then say nothing
unless you're outrage and full of spite
and morose
at the state of human nature
beauty and song thrown out in an effort to leave nobody behind
and so we have a generation coming in
at the age of 5, who are told new math
new science
wrote memorization of equations
no thought process, no argument about relation
theory of relativity, the genious mind just numbers and letters on a page with squiggles and lines that don't have to mean anything more than they mean on the book
we have a generation with no lust, no hope
Do they dream in black and white?
do they dream at all?
is the consequence of IQ tests and graded paper intelligence
the thirst for knowledge and creativity?
WE HAVE TO SCREAM
at the injustice
Burn it to the bricks and ashes
we hurl through the windows
in the streets and in the parks
car radios and clock towers sold
for cheap homemade *****
dance around the fire like the wild things are
LET THE WILD RUMPUS BEGIN
but then we're still hollow
no happy medium, just excess
in the pursuit of Dionysus, trepination,
demon possession is illegal in the eyes of the police and federal law
spread your legs and lean against the car
as they frisk you and plant the seed
of doubt
in the cuffs of your jeans
You have the right to remain silent
but I hope you don't
refuse
question
resist

You asked me why I traced the lines on your face,
I couldn't bear to tell you that I wanted your skin to burn my fingertips until we met again.
I found myself staring while you were sleeping, memorizing your every feature.

I don’t want to forget even the tiniest freckle.
I could paint every square inch of your room with utmost detail.
I memorized it while you were dreaming of all the places you'd rather be, and I was awake from the horrors of the nightmare that is your departure.
Maybe if I don't forget the view from my side of the bed, I'll be able to close my eyes and still imagine things haven't changed.

It’s Sunday morning. It’s bright and cool, the sort of fall morning that makes the world’s problems seem like fake news. Peter and I are at the Marriott Courtyard, off campus. This morning’s breakfast is Peter’s 19th birthday present to me.

I’m redorkulously happy and surprisingly hungry. Somewhere, in the noisy, happy sounding kitchen, there's a bacon, cheddar-cheese, tomato, ham, green-pepper, and spinach omelette being convoked in my name, and my tummy is growling in anticipation.

Our waiter brought us large white mugs of nutmeg coffee - God bless her for that. Sipping it, I scanned the dining room, where carefree, normal people were enjoying their brunches. They didn’t look like they had hours of reading and problem-sets (homework) waiting for them later - but who knows?

Peter leaned forward, smiling, to refill my mug and then, when adding some cream, he almost overfilled it. I couldn’t help chuckling. I enjoy this awkward man’s company beyond all sanity, to the point that it’s a little cringy and embarrassing. Our smiles seemed to clang together, like symbols. I wish I could bask in the warmth of that smile all day.

“You could do me a favor,” I say shyly, “a little extra present?” I said, trying to look pitiable.
“What?” he asks, with a skeptical look. I open my bag and pull out my latest physics PSET (a homework problem set).
“This problem haunted me in my dreams last night,” I say, smoothing out the wrinkled paper and rotating it so it was right-side-up for him. “#6,” I said, confirming that with a pointing finger.

He glances at it. “Ahh, classical mechanics?” he guessed. “Right,” I confirmed.
He looks up at me through his bushy, blue-black eyebrows, “You took AP physics one in high school and physics 2 last year?” He asked. “Yeah,” I confirmed, “but this problem is throwing me.”

“Well,” he says, motioning me to hand him my pen, “you’re perspicacious all right, but you’re basically a biology major,” he begins, “a set of studies that involve a memorization mentality. For physics one and two, I bet you memorized Maxwell's laws, the Kinematic equations and the table of equation cases, ya?”
I nodded yes.

“Unfortunately, that’s not going to cut it here,” he says, shaking his head, “All of those nice simplifications aren’t in play here - there are no cases to rely on - it’s derive as you go.” As he explained this he was briskly scribbling something on a paper napkin and the answer was there, on that, a second later, when he rotated the paper back to me.

His eyes are a dark, gingerbread brown, but despite that darkness, they seemed warm and lit from within. A swoop of his dark blue-black hair has fallen across his forehead, I leaned over the small table to tuck it back into place. “Thank you,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief, “did you show your work?” I asked as I folded the paper and napkin away.
“Of course,” he says, amused, “but we’ll review it later,” he assured me.

“Happy birthday ME!” I said, in a whispered cheer.
“Yes,” he grinned, “Happy Birthday, YOU,” he pronounced as our omelettes arrived

I wanted to start off my speech  with a little poem.
When this poem is over, I want to know if any of you recognize the author.

“On top of a hill, there’s a rose.
This rose get’s sunlight and nutrition from the soil beneath it
Never before has the rose been asked to do a task suitable for garden
When asked today if the rose can grow the grass around it
The rose stood still
Little red rose, I can tell your stem is nervous
The wind is whipping you like a baker and his cream
Put the nerves behind you and begin to water your fellows
Success is only a day away
Tonight the rose watered the garden.”

You probably don’t recognize the author because the author is me.
In August 2010, the beginning of my sophomore year, I picked up poetry.
I kept it to myself.
Most of my friends thought it was lame or stupid to be writing.
Mostly because I’m a guy. They were all interested in cars, sports, parties, you name it.
Where on the other hand, I stood in my living room with music as loud as I can get it, and a pen in my hand.
I didn’t write sad things. Mostly I wrote inspirational pieces.
However, it was to make up for the feelings that I had.
See, I had tricked myself into believing that I wasn’t going anywhere.
I’d given up on myself.
Everyone around me completely believed in me and wanted to see me do something great.
By November, I had gotten into writing to a point where I liked it. I wanted to show someone.
So I showed a few of my writings to my english teacher.
She was awestruck that I had that kind of writing capabilities, and suggested I looked into Slam Poetry, or competitive performance.
I was terrified.
I was 15 going on 16, with no self confidence to speak of.
How was I going to do that?
I wasn’t. There was no way you were going to find me risking what little bit about myself that I liked to be judged by total strangers.


That’s when a few weeks later, there this a gathering in the auditorium.
I walked in and sat down next to a few of my friends to see what was going on.

It was
incredible.
A few poets from Portland had come to our school to perform.
Everything I had been told about performance was right in front of me.
Something, and to this day I don’t know what it was, took control of me.
I marched over to one of the poets on the side of the auditorium, and asked if I could be put on the list of kids who were going to be able to perform.
I waited. My stomach was in knots. I was probably about to throw up
Then I heard it.
My name.
My legs walked up.
I vomited my words sloppily in-front of people.
It was terrible.
But the feeling of doing it....
I was hooked.

I kept writing.
I was told that there was a competition in portland to be put on the first youth slam poetry team to represent maine, ever.
There were five spots
I wanted one.
I practiced in front of my mirror
Memorization and editing was my life after school for about three months.
Until it was time.
The day came that I was suppose to put it all out there.
Three poems.
Three rounds.
Five judges.
One outcome.
I vomited my words all over the audience.
I hated all three of my performances.
Until I heard my scores.
They were almost all tens.
I came in second.
I was on the team.

I’ve performed in other competitions since then, against other poets in their mid thirties who have been writing for years
And beaten them.
I’ve been told my traveling artists that if anyone on the team was to go anywhere, that it’d be me.
By then, I’d only been writing for about a year.
Some kid who liked nothing about himself, from a no name town in Maine,
getting praise from poets who have seen the world and gotten their names put in books for centuries.
I’ve been published.
Twice.
Possibly even putting out my own small book of work, soon.
I never thought it’d get to this level.
I worked and worked and worked until I hated every single poem.
Then I taught myself to love them again.
I kept performing and building my confidence.
I wouldn’t be who I am now without it.
I even took the confidence that I have gained and used it to do something I never thought I’d be able to do.
I joined the National Guard.
I had talked about it since I was a kid, but never had the mindset that I’d actually do it.
But here I am. I’m going to be a medic for the National Guard.
Never had I ever thought of doing something like that.
And I am.

My message to you is that every single one of you have a goal.
Some of you might want to be lawyers, doctors, mechanics, business owners, or even poets.
Do it.
Don’t let anything stop you.
We’ve just met, and I already know you can do it.
But it won’t be handed to you.
You’re going to have to work for it.
I’m living proof, standing in front of you that goals can be accomplished.
I’ll even give you a little hint.
Something that someone I met a few years ago taught me.
False confidence is still confidence.
You just need to do one thing that will terrify you
Risk it all. Put it all on the table for everyone to see.
You’ll be surprised how many people will look up to you for it.
Your dreams are out there
Waiting for you
Before you go to bed tonight
Think about what you can do tomorrow
To make them happen
Thank you

The inverse of error
A metaphorical math
Because I rhyme so sick in season
You can call men Sylvia Plath
You can call me Sylvia Plath
Spilling verses accidental
Spilling blood like pen and paper
Give me rock paper, scissors—construction
Philosophy of metaphors—the reciprocal of destruction
Creation in deviation
Multiplication in meditation and mesmerizing memorization
Mad in the head, but I’m a mat-hatter for love
'A zombie by neuroses
A zombie by drugs
But on those pharmaceutical
Cause cut **** is for thugs
(3% probability
Is in the margin of error
How many times have we ******
And would you even care?
Oh, despair. The plague of a woman-
Slick wit like slick ****
And you can call these rhymes grimy
Because I’m cleaning your eyes with it.)

Enough-
Its enough having these corporations run our nation while the infiltration of money making keeps destroying world peace aspirations-
Its like Satan and his manipulation keep telling me that success lies in the accumulation-
And the accumulation of that money making is what makes life exhilarating?
And the exhilaration of materialization keep growing as a representation of America’s successful creation-
And soon it becomes discrimination-
Upper class elevation vs. lower class stipulations-
The poor patient vs. Rich patience-
The barring margin of APR regulations-
Keep our nation rotating-Gaining speed and evaluating-
The appreciation of desperation is all for corporate gaming-
The memorization and commercialization keep our nation deprecating from the rest of the worlds visualizations-
Our accreditation creates frustration-
Segregation and integration by the new world organization-
Integration to a peaceful appropriation is questioned by this American administration-
AND I QUESTION IT?

I find myself in a daydream about those lips

Slowly caressing every inch of my body down to my hips

Leaving me in such a state that I cannot control mouth

Deep moans of yes and no and baby please don’t stop

I find myself surrounded in your arms, lost in your voice

I’m not fighting the mood but it takes m y body by force

Blessing my ears with such a tone of memorization

Sending me into a ****** state of confusion

That only you control and I dare not fight the hold

Cause everything you are doing is like food to my soul

As if I need it to continue for my own survival

The thought of you stopping and leaving gives me a taste of dehydration

Hogging this glass of water to the death of me, you hydrate me

Close my eyes as I continue to steady my breath

So much water I’m drowning in my water flow

Trying desperately to keep my head above the current only to be dragged down to the bottom

The water overtaking my body granting me the pleasure of feeling every desire you have

Reaching out for your face to pull you close, gazing into those eyes

Seeing the passion you have for me only takes us to new depths of waters

Suddenly the effort to breath becomes easier as we are exchanging an never ending oxygen support

Legs wrapped around you waist, squeezing to keep you near

As my body is shaking with overwhelming pleasure from this sea we have created

Wanting to bring you to the edge of the waterfall and watch you overflow your self

Both of us deep underwater submerged in love

Suddenly floating to the surface again

It seems we overdosed on love, in our own sea we drowned.

Indifference
Let's do something different. Let's not give this one a form, or try to create structure, a pattern, a format in which to read this. Let's not try to make an art of this. Let's just let the words spill, so that they are all said before they're forgotten. Because this brilliant brain you were given and abused, Victor, well it's not quite the same, it's hard for it to function right, it's hard for it to be what it once could have been. So yes. It is rather weak, and everything leaks out rather quickly, memorization isn't much of a possibility. You can't even remember the words your love says to you. Your wife's words are the sole consolation to all the other **** that life throws at you. Clearly your brain doesn't see the importance of seratonin, or endorphins, or dopamine. 'Cause well, it's holding them all back. Your brain seems to have its own philosophy, that everything works fine, and depression is a myth. And so your "heart", (which is really your soul, which isn't physically existent, so it could be said to be a figment of your imagination, produced by your mind, which perceives  everything that is physical after your brain has processed it, but your mind also cannot be touched, so it may also be nonexistent, does this make me a nihilist?) takes all the consequences and lets it all run through you and take it's toll. So yes, everything just feels like ****. And you really just feel dead. But it can't be said that you are, because you don't know if you are. Your Angel is the one who reanimated you, who suddenly reintroduced the color that you didn't notice was fading from the world. But you see, you've just ****** yourself up so much that you can't get your hippocampus to do much of anything. So now that you've finally met your wife, and now that you love her more than it's even humanly possible to love, you find it increasingly difficult to hold on to what she's giving us. It's like we're trying to carry sand in a fishing net. I can't retain my only happy memories. As she drifts further away, my memory decays along with my soul and my body. Everything I was, everything I became, just goes to ****. It's all a waste if she's not there to receive everything you've worked to create and give to her. You know, Hell is beautiful and sulking in sin is bliss until you've been to Heaven. And I was there. I keep slipping off and falling only to find that she was already waiting to catch me. But each time, she lets me closer and closer to the ground. I'm scared of the day when she won't catch me. But the fear is dull. Everything is dulled. Before she came, you were suffering all the time, every moment, intoxicating yourself so that you could force yourself to be a normal person. Because you were so not normal, that no one could relate to you. And although I deny it, I just want someone to understand me. I want someone who's felt the exact way I feel, so they can tell me how not to feel. Well, you don't feel now, Victor. You don't feel anything, feeling is for humans, and you're not human anymore. You're just the shell of the egg, waiting for the chick to hatch, without feeling that the fetus has already combusted down to ashes, a body without a soul. Incapable of making it anywhere in Life. Because you are me, and I am you, and we are I or you or me, and that's not the way it's supposed to be. All you can do, only because of muscle memorization, is stroke the strings of what's been called an instrument but to you is the extension to your body which you use to voice your soul. That, and attempt to end what you've loathed living, which is a life without her. I had more to say, I have much more thoughts, but let's be honest with ourself, Victor. Anyone who's read this far is probably tired of all your ******* about how you hate your life, being a typical teenager, even though you're hardly that anymore, even though I'm around the corner of having some of what I say be taken seriously. But nobody truly cares, people just get tired of complaints. I don't know why I'm still writing, nobody will read this far. I don't even want to write anymore. I just lack so much motivation that I don't even want to complete this, I don't want to express everything else I was thinking. It's just too much effort for something I don't even care about. Nor does anyone else. I should change the title from "Indifference" to "Depressing Thoughts You Don't Want To Waste Time On". This totally strayed from my original thoughts. I was gonna say something but I forgot. I forgot everything I was going to say. I just feel empty and emotionless now. I hate leukemia. I hate Adam and Eve for committing the sin that ****** us all over, I hate Satan for tempting them, I hate these events. If they just wouldn't have happened, my Angel, my love, my wife, My Azami, she would be okay. Every type of cancer, every type of sickness or disease, could never have hurt her. And we would know she'd make it though this alright, well, it wouldn't have happened in the first place. We'd know we could be together forever. But I'm writing too much. Again. I keep forgetting no one will get this far. Whatever. I guess it helped a little to let some of it out. I just ******* hate this. That I might have to live without her. I hate it so much. I need to drug myself, I can't stand so many negative thoughts and feelings. If only I had been born with a normal brain that acknowledged the need for happiness, and to release seratonin. Whatever, too much again.