Human skin pigment ranges from pale yellow, cream, pink to dark brown.
There is no black or white.
Some African tribes are charcoal grey, but not black.
There is but one race, the human race.
Beware anything that Divides us.
We must Unite for the Common Good.
Welcome to Planet Paul.

The fictional “Prisoner” of the sixties said,
“I am not a number, I am a person.”
He also claimed he was a “free man”.
He shouted defiantly that he would not be pushed,
Filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed
Or numbered.

I couldn’t agree more.
Nor will I be labelled or classified.
“My life is my own”.
I’m an individual human being.
Not Working or Middle Class,
Nor white nor religious nor atheist,
Nor racist, sexist, feminist, chauvinist
No Tory, Liberal. Labourite, Corbynista,
Remainer, Brexiteer, Remainiac, Remoaner
Or whatever.
I don’t do labels.

We are each born as single living entities,
Without asking to be who we are.
All in the same “boat”:
A tiny planet on the far edge
Of a spiral galaxy.

My bowels work like everyone else’s.
I belch and ****.
From time to time I’m ill
Or injured.
A man of many moods.
I’ll live and die like everyone else.
For the bottom line is,
We need to Unite,
As We are All the Same.

Paul Butters

If engrossed in oneself
Life is one dimensional
Without emotion, catalysed by relations
And connections fortifying ones place
Life is meaningless.

This is the place
Where thoughts are expressed
Open and out there
Baring the soul
Judgment withheld
Individuality embraced

narrow potholed roads
long winding switchbacks
blind corners that lead
the chosen to heaven

the rest of us
sinners

rotting slash piles
in a clear cut
fireweed rising
from raw earth

in this land of trees
the forest is forgotten

Those who cannot hear the music playin'
Think because I dance, I am quite insane.
While I pray they hear music one day soon,
'Til then I'll keep dancing to my own tune!

Whatever it is that you choose
The only one who can is you

Whatever that something might be
Just make sure to think it through

And no mater what the outcome is
Don't let others tell you what to do

You are not your age,or, the size of clothes you wear.
You are not a weight,or,the color of your hair.
You are not your name,or,the dimples in your cheeks.
You are all the books you read,and all the words you speak.
You are your croaky morning voice, and the smiles you try to hide.
You're the sweetness in your laughter,and every tear you've cried.
You're the songs you sing so loudly when you know you’re all alone.
You’re the places that you’ve been to,and the one that you call home.
You’re the things that you believe in, and the people that you love.
You’re the photos in your bedroom, and the future you dream of.
You’re made of so much beauty,but,it seems that you forgot.
When you decided that you were defined by all the things that you were not.

Randy McPeek

And I'm here in this little glass house,
On display for the robots next-door --
The last of human life
Trapped in a box with translucent locks
In this paradisiacal paradox.

The suburbs are where dreams go to die.
Look at that cool-guy dad of three
With a car from 1970
Who doesn't get a wink of sleep,
And for dinner he eats batteries.

He wasn't supposed to be like this,
Spending more time with his therapist
Than with his mechanizing kids.

Love is sending them as far away as possible
Before they're condemned to your same tragic fate.

Their precious internal organs are slowly being swapped and traded with engine parts,
So that their chests hum rather than beat --
And wheels are used more often than feet.

Extension cords for intestines
And oil for blood,
Plug them in to sleep at night
So that they may be fully charged and operational tomorrow.

They are constantly being programmed in the greatest form of mass production known to man.
(Well, what's left of him.)

Cookie cutter children with magnetic hands,
Always grabbing and attracting new parts to attach to themselves.
Chewing microchips like bubblegum,
Transferring data as a form of fun.

It's "cool-guy dad 2.0."
He's outdated now,
Useless apart from nurturing the new generation that will ultimately cause his demise.

Oh, what a time to be alive.
To be a human on display in an industrial neighborhood.
(And don't even get me started on the soccer moms.)

Floating down the street,
coddled by the roll of Spanish tongues,
I have never felt more alive than
feeling *** burn my stomach
Blood flowing, giddy
The mountains, my North Star,
peek over the crumbling buildings and
yearning to break through the clouds
Quiet noise rumbles
Even the air tastes different here
My Spanish is broken but my heart is whole
My mind has stopped wandering and my hands stopped searching
I am so alone in the most lovely way -
surrounded by millions of people and miles away from those who hold my heart
I am defined by who I am in this moment
No grades, or tears or memories have followed me here
Finally, my joy is independent
Exclusively made by my own beating heart
to be shared with the world