Alien.

That’s all it takes.
Say it enough times—
with enough pride,
with enough certainty,
say it like it’s harmless—
and you start to believe it.
You convince yourself some people
don’t belong here.
That some lives weigh less.
That some suffering is acceptable.
And soon,
you forget they were ever people to begin with.

This is where it begins.
Not with camps.
Not with walls.
With words—
small, familiar, deadly.
Words that divide.
Words that erase.
Words that strip humanity away
layer by layer,
until you look at a person
and only see a problem.

And what happens next?
We dress it up.
We call it safety.
We call it policy.
We call it normal.

But let’s not pretend.

Alligator Alcatraz is not a policy.
It’s not a technicality.
It’s not safety.
It’s a concentration camp.
Built by people who learned nothing
from the blood their ancestors drowned in.

And I am from Germany.
I know this pattern.
I know how fast words become walls.
How quickly division becomes destruction.
How easily neighbors become strangers,
become threats,
become numbers.

We screamed it into history books—
Never again.
We tattooed it across generations.
We carved it into memorials.
We taught it in classrooms.
We promised.

But promises mean nothing
if we look away now.

It never starts with gas chambers.
It starts with small lines—
borders,
walls,
categories.
It starts with us and them.
When fear speaks louder.
When division feels safer than empathy.
When language poisons the foundation
before anyone notices.
It starts
when people feel so distant,
so different,
that hurting them feels justified.

And I’ll say it plainly—
You cannot be neutral while this happens.
You either fight—
or you help them build the fences.

Because it always ends the same way—
with camps,
with cages,
with bodies counted in hindsight,
and the world pretending
no one saw it coming.

But we do see it coming.
We see it now.
And if we refuse to speak,
if we refuse to fight—

history isn’t repeating itself.
We are repeating it.

A diversion at play,
A separatist dismay.
To inform you of worry,
So that now you’re sorry.
No self for you,
You have what comes due.
Colors they besiege,
To fill their barbaric siege.
Tell them woe thee.
And now, worries see.
Weakness in what is selfless,
Holy what they draw out.
They slander what they spout.
They are superior,
For their inferior.
Nonsense at play,
So don’t let it dismay.
History repeats,
But you have the cheats.
Let them be,
So they can end what they see.

Imagine the feeling she felt to find a wall in
the city. Pretend seeing this blockade: to wake up
and find your sense of self so rudely split
and blood blocked up by barriers of grit
and stone. Immured and trapped. The promenade
has now been pieced apart by guns and guards.
Though even this sensation wasn’t new –
to have her body broken into two –
this construct ripped a rift she could not pass,
with blades of sharp and rusty August grass.
Graffitied cracks through which poor souls have tried          to escape,
but none outrun the trauma of the past.

I seek to see the equality
While suppressing voices.
I seek equity
To further destroy all equality.
You think we are the same?
No! I’m superior.
I’m a God. Woe is Me!!

I’m a Karen? No there.
I complain, I never care!
You see my darkness?
I’m simply suppressed.
You see I’m right? They agree!
You see, the many can outnumber thee!
I shall conquer your plea!
I shall cancel your decree!
I’m fake democracy,
I’m tyranny!

It’s simply untrue!
I’m mad?
I get paid for I!
Nothing, For free!
Media pi-ons I crave,
Lobbyists pave.

My religion;
My followers;
My faith;
Madness.

To me it's strange, the way they speak.
The poets of the ivory peaks.
The ivory's gone, but it's some other thing
I can't afford. That luck won't bring.

Their words are nonsense, their tales obscure,
and I endure
strange sentences and structures
to be a part, and perhaps procure
an understanding of the
heavy handed
application of articulation.
The inebriation of contemplation
of words and rhymes.
Perhaps it will come to me in time.

It is the story of my life.
An unavoidable,
like pain, like light.
The door is open, the hands invite
but the hearts are frozen, with hands that write
about love and romance, pain and longing
where is the tale of the brothers belonging
and sisters working the marathon strings
of shifts to pay to raise a child.
The horrors of a society gone wild.

Where is the working class writer of poems
the wordsmith trained on the limited knowing
where is the voice of those rarely heard?
Where are their stories? Where are their words?

All the white angels

sway, they are singing of us:


of our division.

Whisper the depths of the night— as angelic wrath burns away
at my soul, consuming me in a tempest of alienation, a spectre
unseen; - out of sight; I've lost my mind to my sanity that slips
through my fingers. Where, I ponder, if the appearance of a
grotesque smile will find its place in this so to claim, “beautiful
world?” I remain oblivious to the value of my treasures; until
the very essence of what I cherished fades into oblivion.

Direct my heart toward the doorway; what purpose lies in this
revelation — exposed to the harsh truth of humanity's rawness,
akin to the crude oil extracted to nourish our existence, fuelling
this artificial journey we call life.

The intellect of this age is only but artificial; what is cherished in
these times is only but superficial, fracturing the essence of love
we ought to share. For what is called to be love divided among
us, swiftly reveals the stark truth that all are not treated equal.
Casting shadows on the bonds that should unite us.

We are divided by this so-called love.

Souls are colourless,

black and white the setups that --


separate people.