The blemishes of this world,
Like a necklace that was never pearled
Rooted in deception and hate,
Everyday they mutate
Misinformation spreads faster than COVID,
Discriminating messages promoted
Blood in filthy hands,
The mafia smiles smug and it stands
The ill never acknowledged,
Tainted memories forever collaged
This is The Crisis,
Must there be any bias?
“These are the times that try men’s souls: The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country but he that stands it NOW, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman...yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.” Thomas Paine, The Crisis
*I do not endorse any political party...I’m strictly independent.
What election has left us over the years, (divisions?)
Two and two doesn’t equal four any more in voting booths
Pulling the leveler, to cast ones votes doesn’t registered
Our candidates have already been chosen.
Our way of life is but a passing stain..(Permanent)
However, the flag of justice will wave either in mast
A soul asleep
found bullets colliding
and the devil was charged
only for the bullets that missed.
So Riot! Riot! Riot!
And burn it down!
Because a soul that weeps
fuels the body
Amerikkka was built on the backs of bruised, ****** black backs and I refuse to let my ancestors' forced sacrifice be forgotten because acknowledging the racism that thrives in the country you loves make you uncomfortable. Lives over capitalism. My ancestors were forced to build this country...and their descendants will tear it down.
The mistakes cannot be saved now.
The memories cannot be frowned upon.
The relevance cannot be questioned.
The patience cannot be tested
The light's cannot be dimmed now,
revolution's taking place.
The anger cannot be altered now,
hatred is taking command.
The old mistakes that take no sin cannot be judged now.
The sinful mistakes cannot be left unpunished now.
The ministry, the directorate promise justice
like the geography books promise rain every year.
The news channels barely cover real news. Merely justice is served to the deserving. Government is influenced by media rather than facts and reality
The matrix is just another name for institutions.
The ones that own you.
Come here, number 258-65-4562.
Provides you social security in that you are only a number.
Tallies on what they can take.
A way to count you.
Devalue your spirit down to a decimal.
The monetary value of what you can contribute.
A worth they just can never seem to buy into.
Enslaving our people, cattle to which they devour.
An empty stomach with a pit in it.
Pit seeded from eve’s apple.
Turning brothers to thieves with slightest taste of power.
Authoritarians filled with greed.
Putting our sons into attires that strip them of their generations.
Giving them guns to spite our neighbors.
All for those who we are nameless.
An extra decimal, partial space to a means as an end.
Hanging off the sentence of history rewritten in the favor of those who should be forgot.
220 000 is Unjust
220 000 + 1 is unjustly better.
I started this at 180 000. I don't wish evil against the pres... *******. Yes I do.
I'll keep going back and changing the number + 1. :)
Write between the lime juice lines,
And basil blood,
On the cutting board
To the rhythm of cooks' kitchen knives,
Write between the wet mop tendril trails,
On the reused restaurant floor,
As you carried to clean
A mistake some rich man made,
Write to the beat of the press,
Punching out the steel form,
In accordance with the curriculum,
Write in the silent moments,
Chewing homemade sandwiches
Through the cigarette smoked sunrise
Write between stun grenade blasts
After cleaning tear gas attacks
Write in between ****** boot prints,
The shape of the state seal
Congealed to the street.
You have been watching your crippled borders
with wistful looks for gloomy centuries
Soon we will wipe your bloodred tears
after heroic and holy adventures
Yet you are in a deep disappointment
because of the hands lent to the unscrupulous
But never unlearn the destiny ever:
history is always betrayed,
talents are envied,
virtues are misused...
They love politics, not the history,
'Cause they have a historical fear
and it reminds them how they had been abused...
I have found even their "sumptuous" justice
which is carried in their ***** bulky pockets...
It is very near,
In Karabakh, the stars will twinkle in a joy
50 million times I will mention your name
and to Jıdır we will be running bare feet.
The echoes will fill the preconceived ears
In Shusha, I will call you,
In Tabriz, we will meet...
the carousel efforts
to blast through
(w)ith feral legacies
aligned intimately ornately
awakens in need
****** corrective agency
and Glightrovee ab-surd as
qua as qua
asqua aqua qua
a^s is trite melody infer[no]
t a x i yellowing each pavement
by truth in yo ' fa ' ' lo ((lo))
i by horns and turns
in plyable waves arrest
what justice juices
quai noyh thlume