independent
all alone
in this country
we call home

alone
but not lonely
peaceful
... if only

through true struggles and true strife
the awful people take our lives
from rocky peaks to desert sands
a trustworthy hope; a nation's plan

we will make it

a six day war
fight for our lives
form our hives
pray for our wives

a six day war
get our land
let our boots sink in sand
and reach for
that savior of a hand

a six day war
lose our hope
try to cope
we
will
win
the
war

bombs
rain hopelessly from the sky
blood
forms pools around our best friends
pain
is all we can feel
so, we send them bombs back.

It's a blessing
I can do online school
Classes I can't take here
Classes I'm 'too young' to take
Helps me with college when there are no APs

Until it's a curse
When I can't do online school
Because the internet's bad
Things are late
Because they expect the internet to work

It’s the morning of a different day—who knew there’d be another?
Lisa and I went on our harbor jog @ 5am—that’s nothing new.
It was, like 44°—we’re enjoying fall’s cold, refreshing bite.

Anyway, my mind wasn’t on it and I nearly stumbled over
a chunk of dark, uneven roadway, made invisible by its function.
Charles, jogging beside me, wordlessly managed to right me
without us losing a step and I smiled my thanks.

argh! I’ve got to get out of my head.

Later, in class, lulled by the comfort of the stiff, wooden chair, my eyes unfocused and the professor’s voice seemed to fade into the backdrop. Suddenly, he was asking me a direct question that seemed almost without context.

Metaphorically slapped back into focus, I scanned the room and the whiteboard for clues before awkwardly—walking the edge of catastrophe—bluffing it out, because, well, I’ve an instinctive reluctance to admit defeat with any sort of grace.

I didn’t sleep well last night. I had dreams—nothing with a defined purpose–just an amalgamate of bonfires and storms in a coastal scrubland with an odor of fresh cedar and a sense of casual vulnerability.

My attention today is like an intermittent pulse.
.
.
Songs for this:
Headz Gone West by Nia Archives
Dark Red by Steve Lacy

I wish I didn't know so much.
Looking at these pieces,
I learn so much
About a friend
I have no place to know
Anything about.

I love their simple drawings.
Their flatness,
How cute they are,
Even the mistakes that
I find so
Incredibly
Annoying.
They let me know how normal
My friend is.

I hate their drawings
That, on the surface,
Look like chaos.
I learn about how they see themselves.
I learn of their fears and worries.
I learn, all because I know.
They let me know how sad
My friend is.

I wish I didn’t know so much.
Looking at these pieces,
I learn so much
About myself.
I can’t bring myself
To say anything.

I love my friend.
Their distance,
How cute they are,
Even their flaws that
I find so
Oddly
Appealing.
They just don’t know
How special they are.

I wish I could say
I hate myself.
I may be chaos,
But in my eyes,
I’m so simple.
I learn of my fears and worries,
Yet, I feel I know nothing.
I’m not sad,
I just want to make them laugh.

Spin and twirl on the floor
Let the music take you away
Dance like never before
Dance till the light of day

Let them cry outside
In here is your domain
Let them starve outside
Let them die of plague

In here you are safe
Out of eternity's reaching grasp
Away from the peasants' blame
You and the devil laugh

Then the front doors break
The mob swarms in with a crash
Your arms are bound in chains
Your safety burned to ash

You're kicked and dragged outside
A rope thrown around your neck
You can see the hate in their eyes
You can smell it on their breath

The starving mob, they cry
Calling for your death
Their chants reach up to the sky
"Eat the rich! Eat the rich! Eat the rich!"

I cannot say if things are worse
Than times that went before
For I saw not that bygone world
Nor what they did endure

Where once their sight was short,
Now it's growing nearer
Starter homes that once held court
Go "green" like silver mirrors.

Elixirless were garden hoses
Plastic cups, no holy grail beneath their noses
Now all you have left are pictures
That time has robbed of hue
I study them now, and try to suppose it
The complexion hides no trace of youth:
Just spoiled cream and rotting roses
A foul-odored truth.

The trade was fair when young were the eyes
That fixed upon that crest, their prize
Now turned white with cataracts,
Still they **** it dry
And turn to bottles for babes set aside,
Begging pity for the old and blind
And anyone too far gone to toil.
"It shall be hard time," or so they cry,
"Served beneath the soil."

It's hard time indeed, that which is served
Beneath the ravaged soil;
So tell me:
Can a head that sold me, the undeserved,
Anoint itself with motor oil?