I hope that the world
comes to see my mind
and hope for them
to pray for my life.

Because they are never going to offer
me their hand
I'm over here in a distant land.

Suffering off poverty--
a place named 3rd world country
and none of them understand
that I smile while I bathe
standing on the riverside sand.

It's my peaceful cleansing
before returning to my shackles
the fear of living in this territory.

I used to have my neighbors
but now I have craters
and collapsed buildings
to keep me company.

Standing in the remnants
of a door frame
is the last place I ever saw my family.

Some of us chose to drown
swimming across the Aegean sea--
some of us chose to stay
so our children
could have a place on a raft about to keel,
but none of us chose to suffer
and feel like the entire world had turned against us.

Become the answer.
Remove the why.... I mean, "y".

The nation is yours.

Get it?
Think. Feel. Live. Love.
It's up to us, the little guys.
The thousandaires, or hundredaires...
****, even the dollaraires.

We ARE America.
I AM America.
I am love.

I hate living in a society where the chaos is so cryptic and over looked by a overflow of major events and mass material. The chaotic tendencies of our nation is so systematic and crafted that most of us are able to feel unaffected. I much rather everything be ruthless and blatant so we can be aware that we're going through the stages of ruination.

Samarian oil
Samarian wine
On open Judean wounds
Bound by a Samaritan's hands
Never felt so good,
A salve to the national shame
Burning through the traveler's head.

It’s a place
It’s a paradise
It’s a natures
All cities with a pride…..


Sceneries are green
Verdant hills
Ocean blues……


Our Natives
Our Nation
Our Pride….


Its Philippines
We are like eagles ~that fly…..


Note:


“ONE NATION, ONE IDENTITY”

TO GOD BE ALL THE GLORY!

from a wonderful night
she came alive
oh my country
obscured in her gloomy might
her love seemed so right

the feign of her tattered story
she bears the burden of Africa
the reign of her battered glory
her body abut and juxtaposed Madagascar

I wish that I fly away
from my path
I might not stray
from the start
I was taught to pray

my dreams to soar in beautiful array
as the nation saddles in its own barrage
lamentations of 56 years' blink
I see on eagle's wings what victory brings
the joy of 36 shining gold rings
too bright to look at
naming and counting one for each

and when twilight was reach
in plenteous joy and happiness
to the people my heart outreach
compensation for years lived
in wood and ash

I gave too much, for all too little
dinlemek
in the end, it was okay.
استمع
Nothing lost, nothing gained,
ακούω
and nothing left to say.
बात सुनो

But
Почуй мене

If I speak, will you listen?

Light the torches.
Burn it to the ground.
Let the flames dance until the ashes flee this plot of land upon the back of the wind.
This patriarchal house that father built has been stained with the blood of past victims.
The blood of enemies dots the floor while whats left of friends streaks the walls, marking the spot where they leaned for one last moment of respite prior to life escaping them.
We stand here with the warm blood dripping from our hanging fingertips.
Clothing streaked red.
Clearly we all had a part to play.
Whether part of the execution or part of the clean up, we all took part in the slaughter.
Fathers swung blades.
Mothers bandaged the wounded so they may **** again.
Children carried the buckets of blood to be disposed of.
Yet no one wept.
Not a tear was shed in the name of this great nation.
No one wailed during the systematic destruction of our resources.

Roads are crumbling.
Water is poisoned.
Politics are a circus.
The police have become a military force.
And lives have been destroyed.
Fathers are still wielding the blade
While mothers take up the blood buckets of their children who have been slain.
When does it end?
Does it end when we run out of weapons?
When we run out of people?
When we run out of love?
Weapons are only an extention of the wielder.
The bomb unbuilt cannot explode.
Our mother's words should be ringing in all of our ears.
Be good.
Treat people right.
Love.
Instead we jam fingers in ears, scream and stamp feet until even our thoughts are nothing but static.
The hiss and squeal of gunshots and speeding tires continually drown out the sounds of children's laughter and those Marvin Gaye records that Mrs. Jenkins plays on Sunday nights.
This isn't just a story of the inner city blues.
The suburban warriors are also witness to the carnage.
It's time to stay the blade.
Allow mothers to mourn.
And children to play.
Peace is a choice.
Choose wisely.

green
the colour of freedom
a whispered memory
a mother's touch

red
the colour of blood
needlessly spilled
a river in the streets

grey
the colour of despair
but a remnant
of the candle's flame

death
a colour of...
it must be a colour
the pallor painting the father's-

green
it seems lost
among heartache, loss
will the memory ever fade?

blue
the sky under which children play
will they again?
for the sky is grey

green*
the mother's nation
birthed of strife, breach
shining through