They Excluded You,
no invitation was sent,
no offer, of wanting to go,
towards you was meant,

they left you all alone,
they left you behind,
they forgot all about you, and
that wasn't so kind,

You are feeling sad and blue,
not knowing what to do,
You feel you have no friends, and
In your mind, this is true,

They are out having fun,
Under the Hot, Blazing Sun,
are you feeling left out,
You are not the only one,

I know how you feel,
the betrayal is real,
these fake *** old friends
Could ****** hit the hills

Sometimes it's not fair,
They treated you so wrong,
They really do not care, and
I been done moved on,

They Excluded You, but
It's all good and well,
I will find better friends,
While ya'll go swim in hell


B.R.
Date: 9/30/2025

A lamentation carved in ancestral ash and silken wrath
I was born beneath a roof of borrowed stars, where silence was stitched into my cradlecloth, and every withheld scream became a psalm
for the Sentinel of Bloodline me.
They speak in tongues dipped in honeyed venom, those kin who wear concern like ceremonial garlands, but their rituals reek of rot their blessings, barbed.
The Bearer of Burdens my progenitor
spent his prime erecting altars for their comfort, his sweat sanctified their feasts, his spine bent into bridges they now demand
be paved with gold and guilt.
Two daughters, they hiss, as if our existence were a ledger of loss, as if his labor must be transmuted
into inheritance for those who never wept for him.
And the Matriarch of Grace my origin flame
they veil her with shame, commenting on her visage, demanding she drape herself in submission
as if dignity were theirs to dictate.
Yet she speaks to them still, with a grace that defies gravity, while I her blood’s echo
burn in silence, my fury folded into polite nods
and counterfeit smiles.
I want to unsheath my voice, etch boundaries into their bones, teach them the sacred geometry of respect.
How dare they trespass
into the sanctum of our suffering?
But I swallow my wrath for the Matriarch’s peace, for the Bearer’s dignity, for the society that weighs silence
as virtue.
Still, silence is a slow crucifixion.
So I write.
I ritualize my rage into verse, my grief into glyphs, my defiance into legacy.
Let this poem be a blade wrapped in velvet, a dirge for the betrayed, a sanctuary for Sentinels
who guard their lineage like sacred flame.

They carved my name in silence, not gold,
In the ledger of “useless,” bitter and cold.  
One slip just one and the scroll rewrote,
Years of grace drowned in a single note.  

I bowed with reverence, not for their crown,
But for the myth that teachers don’t look down.  
Yet they measured worth by tuition paid,
Not by the soul or scars I’ve displayed.  

They smiled at rebels, gave them light,
While I, the quiet, was cloaked in night.  
No reward for being good, no balm,
Just the echo of blame, void of calm.  

So let me be bad, if good is unseen,
Let me wear thorns, not petals pristine.  
If virtue’s currency is never spent,
Then let me rise from their contempt.  

I am not their puppet, nor their pawn,
I am the storm that breaks their dawn.  
Time will etch me in truths they missed,
In the ink of fire, not a teacher’s list.  

Let them choke on the silence they gave,
While I build sanctuaries from every grave.  
I’ll prove my worth not for their gaze  
But for the stars that know my blaze.

They chant in cloisters of comfort:
“Wealth is fleeting, power corrupts.”
But I have walked the corridors of consequence, Where silence bows to sovereigns of coin and command.
Let them sip serenity from porcelain platitudes I drink from chalices forged in fire:
Currency, the golden marrow of movement;
Power, the storm that parts the sea of no.
In this epoch of veiled verdicts, Respect is not earned it is engineered.
And privilege is not gifted it is gripped
By those who wield both purse and pulse.
Give me dominion, not to dominate, But to dismantle the architecture of injustice.
Let my voice be velvet and volcanic—
Unjudged, unshackled, unafraid.
Let my family dwell beneath citadels of certainty, Not beneath the brittle breath of borrowed hope.
Let my past be a phantom, For the present wears a crown.
One decree, and doors unfold.
One gesture, and gravity bends.
No garment mocked, no gaze policed, When power walks beside wealth, cloaked in reverence.
I do not seek applause I seek immunity.
Not from truth, but from tyranny.
For in this realm, freedom is not a birthright
It is a transaction, sealed in gold and grit.
So I rise, not as a monarch, But as a myth reborn.
To wear my privilege like prophecy, And my power like poetry.

At least on the surface, I pretend to have calmed down completely, nothing can upset me anymore. I accept the winter time system only out of necessity. Because - whether I like it or not - the World still ripens in autumn; my wandering, long-gone memories are simultaneously depleted and filled, finite Time waves within me, like the restless waves of a shipwrecked sea, which are increasingly difficult to console and calm.

The whole may now seem as if one has to look through the magnifying glass of a large worm-like lens into the great, infinite nothingness; it is surely Lack that simultaneously throbs and casts doubt, while a little selfishly waiting for its own downfall. From its split, ample poles emerge ants and maggots, just like in real, profiteering, scheming life, as if the sins that are committed were the same ones who committed them.

Because life should not resemble otherworldly whims and fancies, because the passings are not meant for self-forgetful joys to circulate in them. Perhaps one day the minute-by-minute tide will raise effective counterarguments. Yes, yes! But what will happen after that?! They will carry the only personal urn after the person, sighing, because it is still somewhat cheaper than the coffin. Heaps of petals of anxiety still want to leak out unnoticed through the openable doors; a bag of sadness, nothing more. That could only be left after an endless life!