The wild fury hidden below
Emanating a wicked black flames glow
But this wraith was bestowed
When the fog lifted in the meadows

This demon had finally hit the light
After hiding so long in the dead of night
Like heat, The truth started to arise
From amoung the murky waters of deceitful lies

The fire only seemed to have grown
And its presence soon became known
The apathetic rage had consumed the mask
In which this unearthly flame was latched

The wicked, evil flame
Wouldn't, or couldn't be tamed
Not even the black hole of he abyss
Could hold a hate like this

This ferocious, deprived monster turned a field of emotion
Into a empty, bottomless ocean
Worst of all no one saw the posined knife
That is plaguing such a once joyful life

i saw the flag hang limp in the sweat-burned air
the president mumbled through a teleprompter
while the rich ******* clinked their rosé glasses
and the homeless guy outside CVS whispered “revolution.”

i walked through a walmart cathedral of neon death
fluorescent lights buzzed like dying bees.
a woman cried in the diaper aisle,
not enough left on the EBT
and the checkout kid had eyes like war.

everyone’s got a gun now or wants one.
fear is sold in bulk, 2-for-1.
but joy?
joy costs everything you got
plus shipping.

billboards scream GOD LOVES YOU
but only if you vote the right way
& keep your ****** polite
& don’t kneel too long
unless it’s in church or to capitalism.

trump’s face still floats like a blimp in the sky
bloated with lies, smiling like rot
and no one’s coming to save us.
they’re too busy selling hats,
too busy building walls out of fear

america, you jazz-blasted ghost,
you cigarette-burned lover of a dream.
i still drive your highways like rosary beads
but now they lead to nowhere;
just strip malls, gun shops, & graves.

You’re not making me unsure about me
you’re making me angry, at you
cause I love who I am and how I look
I used to blame myself
but now all I only do for doubting me
is doubting you.

L.C.

tomorrow, we duel
(yes, that is pompous to say
- but you once told me my affinity for the dramatic
was something that endeared you to me.
was that a lie, too?)

neither of you fools know quite who you are dealing with.
your mythic ***** has teeth and will bite if prompted.
i don't think you understand what i am capable of.
and i definitely know neither of you recognize how frightfully average you are.

i carved a home out of my own broken bones,
i sang with the freezing january wind,
i walked along highways with nothing to my name but a backpack and an oversized teddy bear.

you do not know half of what i could do
-- and you never will.
you're not worth it.

I said:
“I think I have ADHD.”
They answered:
“No, you’re just a ******. Get a job.”

So I ran.
In circles.
Around a reality
that never gave me room to breathe—
just fingers pointed and ******* advice.

They didn’t see the war in my head,
just the pupils.
They didn’t hear the silence in me,
just the noise I made.

I asked for help—
they handed me judgment.
I reached out—
they recoiled,
like I carried plague and guilt in my veins.

And then—
years later,
when everything’s burned,
when I wear my diagnosis like scars and proof,
they show up.

With a box.
“Here’s Ritalin. It’ll help.”

Ritalin.
Legal speed.
The same thing they hated me for chasing
now handed over
wrapped in plastic and prescription smiles.

What the **** happened?
Was it the label that made me worthy?
The paperwork that made my scream real?

I was never chasing a high.
I was chasing peace.
I was never after drugs.
I just wanted to understand
why my mind never shut up.

But there was no room for that.
Not then.
Not until now.
Now that the system sees
what I’ve been screaming
the whole
****
time.

******* WORDS,
A BUNCH OF ******* WORDS
THAT’S ALL I HAVE LEFT,
A BUNCH OF ******* WORDS

WRITE, ******* WRITE, WRITE,
WRITE SOME ******* WORDS
WRITE, WRITE, WRITE MY ******* WORDS

******* WORDS,
THEY’RE JUST ******* WORDS
WHY EVEN ******* BOTHER
THEY’RE JUST ******* WORDS

******* WORDS IN MY HEAD
******* WORDS ON MY PAGE
******* WORDS,
THEY’RE ONLY ******* WORDS

Filling my buckets of red—
I promise you,
I don’t have enough yet.

I don’t have enough anger
to paint the hands
of every man
who ever dared
to be a traitor.

(To the one that no one sees)

Hidden in the depths
of my fractured ribs,
burning my heart
with hot-waves,
you hid.
Born,
when all
tore my hands
for drawing my
ink soaked thoughts
in black.
Promise me;
To not let
my heart break,
just let it melt till
none is left,
will you?