Trauma and pain
They change a person, let loose the monsters within
A hero is born
A hero that experiences suffering for long enough becomes exposed
The darkness spreads and corrupts
A villain is a hero turned by their inner demons

Power is born from family and unity
Power is created from pain and trauma
Power grows when further corrupted
In reality
The villain wins
Gemma 1d
Pointless conversations
That lack any complications
Was a turning point from the normal, straight line of random, stupid questions
Questions that piled up and provided us with nothingness.
One half of me lived for those moments whereas the other half killed for me to move on from a fucking waste of space like you .
That's what you did to me ,
You split me in half nearly and discreetly and forced each part of my mind to enter battle;
I was fighting for peace yet the lead up was anti climactical
I'm still slightly stumped on how your words that meant fuck all made me so divided but complete
Yet my internal fight made me realise
You aren't worth fighting for -
You have nothing over me .
When the kill-shot kills not, the dead lions don’t roar.
They become the ghost in the dark, silent yet present.
Like power, real power, stealth in tall green grasses,
they watch
the victory dances and gleeful prances of deluded preys.
Beware!! Be not carried away.
Look into the eyes of the golden flames,
See their manes –Alive!!
In the fog of night’s peaceful fade.

Belema .S. Ekine
(belemascribbles)
Listen.
We control this place
We've taken charge
Of this No Man's Land.
We don't need the United States
Or the United Nations.
To give their approval.
If you refuse to comply with our edicts
We'll simply blast you to bits
Those who enter the area under our control
Must  be deferential to us,
But,
Even if you kowtow to us
And accede to our demands,
We're liable to be
Suspicious of You.
We call the shots around here,
But don't feel obliged to "make sense",
As you Infidels describe it.
"Making Sense",
Doesn’t make any sense to us.
So, to Hell with  all that Nonsense!
If you want to lecture us about Human Rights,
Women's Rights
Or the need for children to be educated
Give us a few million dollars first!
Then, we might be listen to you to your sermon
For a little while
But don't be disappointed
If we decide to  kill you
While you're trying to make your point!
All this Nonsense about "Humanitarianism"
Is for the Children of the Rich
To study abroad.
It isn't the type of Logic
That makes any sense out here in the Bush.
It's the Men with the most Firepower
Who Call the Shots out here!
This is no Hollywood Movie!
We just do what we need to do to survive.
Do you think that we really ENJOY
This way of Life?
NO WAY!
We used to love raising vegetables
As well as keeping
Chickens and goats,
But the rains are infrequent nowadays.
Our  vegetables  wither and die,
And our herds simply starve.
It's a lot easier
To simply kidnap the President's Daughter,
And hold her for ransom
Than to bother with Agriculture.
It’s no big deal.
We just take the spoiled girl off her parent's hands
For awhile.
If we don't kidnap her
She’ll just demand a BMW from her Mom and Dad
As well as lots enough money
To be able to afford the College Tuition
Overseas.
So,
What difference does it make
Whether SHE blackmails her parents
Or we do?
There are rumors that we like to gang-rape
Wealthy girls
But they aren't true.
This is just  Western Propaganda
That is used to brainwash people
So they won't
Take our Agenda seriously.
We don’t really do those sorts of things.
Hey,
If this spoiled girl
Listens  to our side of the Story for a little while,
We know that she'll
Become our Advocate
Rather than consenting to be
Our Slave.
We aren't stupid people, you know?
We know how to make a good impression on  a young women.
We just focus directly on getting exactly what we want
Rather than conforming to a bunch of stupid,
Arbitrary rules
That were designed
To keep us impoverished and subservient.
All the people here in the Bush
Know that we're really the Ones
Who look  after them.
The so-called
“Real Government”
Doesn't actually administer this Area at all!
It's fallen into neglect.
We’re  the Saviors
Of this No Man's Land.
Sure, we use Terror to achieve our objectives.
That's what works out here.
People respond to Fear.
Human Beings  don't necessarily
Listen to reason.
However,
We're not really “Terrorists".
That's a  word that was  made up
By the Wealthy,
Westernized Elites.
Terrorism is not an IDEOLOGY.
It's just the way we get things done!
While these Government officials
Go on Junkets
In  Paris, New York or Rome
And participate in Drunken Orgies
In Rio De Janeiro
And Bangkok.
We rule this area for them,
And  make it possible for them to do
Whatever  they want to do with their time
We "administer" this Area
So these  corrupt
"Leaders"
Can go out and have some fun!
They should be grateful to us!
After all,
They don’t give really care about the people,
Out here in the Bush.
They just think,
"Let those maniacs rule the Bush!"
"If the Whites know that there is Terrorism in Nigeria,"
"They'll give us lots of  money."
"To help them"
"Fight their war!"
See!
We're actually helping our
So-called "leaders
By ruling this No Man's Land!
Then, they can go  play golf
With President Donald Trump,
Whore around in Rio De Janeiro
Or do
Whatever the Hell they want to do.
"No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell."

------Carl Jung
It’s an internal feeling just like any other.
Both hard and soft at the same time
and always unforgiving.

You write like you mean something to someone.
Like someone is going to read your words and agree
or understand
or try to get it
but it slips past them every time.

You write like you have something to say.
Like someone cares and wants to hear.
To understand.
To agree.
To disagree.
To spill respect either way.

You write like he’ll read,
like he’ll care
and he’ll hear you once and for all.
He’ll really hear you
and won’t tell you you’re wrong
even though you’re always wrong.

You’ll write like he loves  you.
Unconditionally.
Not conditionally.
Only when you’re perfect,
perfectly quiet
not writing at all.

You write like you’re right.
Like you know.
You know what’s best.
What’s best for you
and he can’t tell you what to do.
Though he can
and he will

You write like you’ve overcome it
once and for all.
Or just once.
One time would be enough.
For now.
To start.

You write like he’ll listen.
Listen to a word you’ll say.
Or write.
Or think.
Or try to spit out
even when your tongue is as tied as a shoelace

You’ll write anyway.
When he doesn’t read.
When he doesn’t care.
When he tells you you can’t write.
When he tells you you’re wrong.
You’ve misunderstood.
You’re too sensitive.

You’ll write
and breath
and cry
and speak.

And it’ll mean something,
to someone
somewhere.
Even if it means shit to him
Because he said it was wrong.
David 3d
All things can be created to what I THINK I want, even what I BELIEVE I want,

but to create to what I really KNOW deep deep inside of me -
That I want is what I really want

But I don't get that with all my believing and thinking.
rd 4d
Words have power
Words cast spell
Words can take you to heaven
Or push you into hell


Choose words carefully
What did I do to deserve this?
It isn't rhetorical, it is a literal question.
If I did something to receive this treatment,
then please tell me so that I can apologize.

I miss having original thoughts and ideas.
I miss being unaffected by societal standards and ideas.
I miss being who I am without having to apologize.
I am who I am, why can't that be enough?

I will no longer apologize,
that is the only thing that I am sorry for.

I am sorry,
that I can not transform into someone,
something you want me to be
No longer will I be sorry for who I am
Bardo 5d
Like a muscular drummer drumming,
    the Big wind
It gathers itself, twirls its sticks
Then swooping suddenly lambasts its
     kit
Thrashes the coast, sways the trees
    and rocks the boats
Lathers into it;
Its cymbals crashing are the smash of
    the sea against the rocks
The trees running amuck over the
    rising mountains.

                                    II

With a draught of this air drawn in to
    fill my sails
To have the big windmills of my blood
    rotate
And blow me out then across the bay
Up over the headland, out over the
    wide open sea
A Colossus emerging and none to
    stand in my way.
The sea comes alive on stormy days and gets into your soul
I hold the barbed wire that I use a rein,
For this beast of a world who I cannot yet tame,
I grit my teeth and I hold my breath,
The name of my lover is death.
I kneel in the salt as I am abused,
With cables and whips, yet I am amused,
Blood hits the floor, and I smile at the stain,
The name of my lover is pain.
I scream at the ropes that bind me here,
But I am alone, there's no-one to hear.
I'll be here forever, in my blood and the grime,
The name of my lover is time.
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