There was a child in the heart of our land emaciated, starving, weak.
And there he sat on sticks and stones to beaten down to speak.
So he dreamed, our little boy, of things he wished he had.
He dreamed of things like food and food so he wouldn’t feel so sad.
A bite of food was a dream indeed, better than any other
And for one, selfish as it may seem, he'd push aside his brother.
So he stuffed his face with a dream, the glutton, his eyes squeezed so, so tight.
His belly full with tasty thoughts, he savored every bite.
And once, the moon, who’d seen his dreams, asked the glutton why.
Our little boy he closed his eyes and said this with a sigh;
“I’ve never felt my belly full and begging for release. I’ve starved my days, yes all of them and longed for nothing but peace.
So leave me to my deadly sin, I’ll pay for it in time
for you have yours which I know not and gluttony is mine”.

I’m angry and it’s obvious, so don’t pretend that you can’t see,
I’m sick and tired of being the guy you made me pretend to be
So this is me and I’m furious, the rage I’ve kept inside,
Bottled up and locked away, it’s too red for me to hide.
This hatred that consumes me, it comes from way beneath
And if you cared you’d see the way I laugh through gritted teeth.
I cry out loud when I’m alone and brake things because I’m mad.
I curse your name and hurt myself and it’s not because I’m sad.
You talk with that self righteous tone, criticizing my mood.
You think I’m better than this, well I’m not because it feels so ******* good.
I love the way it burns through me too raw and wild to tame
I love the way it starts to seethe at the mention of your name.
So leave me to my deadly sin, I’ll pay for it in time.
For you have yours which I know not, but rage, rage is mine.

Nothing ever seems to change.
Prayer after prayer and I'm exactly the same.
Scoffing at the idea that I'll ever be holy.

Ive emptied the contents of my stomach
while kneeling on the floor
As many times as I've been at the foot of a pulpit
But I'm still ******* up and my remorse just doesn't do it.

It's never been enough for me to change.

I confess,
I'm selfish and abusive
to my soul for my amusement.
Nothing ever seems to change.

Burn me alive for ten thousand years
and I'll never change.
My regrets haven't meant a thing.

I can't accept that I'm this selfish
but my heart isn't whole again.

Each person affected for my brief moment of pleasure.
Not joy, not love, not need. - Just pleasure.

I want to be better.
I swear I just don't know how.
Someone please show me how.
Because my prayers are bouncing off the shower walls.

Ties that bind are not easily broken.
What did you inherit in your bloodline?
For the fruit is a product of the vine.
We are the consequences of words spoken.
Our Ancestors sin is not forgotten,
planting seeds that grew into bitter wine.
They may have passed but we still pay the fines.
Their silence left us nothing but tokens.

The curses may last four generations,
but the blessings endure for a thousand.
We want to leave a good inheritance.
Elders to fight we need your confessions.
To dig and allow the cycle to end,
in order to give the next ones a chance.

An Atypical American POV

Americans are imaginary beings, each of us modeled on examples
and ensamples
set before us as those who made the American Dream real estate,
sing in your heart

land that we love to say is ours, and the bank's, but,

long ago, proper and property were measured with an older rod...

the taker took, the seller sold, the buyer being as wary as could be,
bought...

and a rising tide, raises all boats,

my people, we have been american for 200 years, on my momma side

Y-side of the equation, which always has an edge,

that keeps us falling up.

My momma side ancestors, see, they was meek, to a fault,

they came thinking, we have and ought to know we have, a right
to know the truth in what we say we hold

as endowment from our creatore, eh... and

here come old chaos, he be comin' up, slowly

got to be good lookin' cause he so ha'd t'see

== those were the days, we think, they never end, they expand ===

but, when y'gotta have it right now, kapow, rumpled-still-kin class,

cut from the same hair shirt... servants are subject to masters,

nature demands supernatural... knowledge
of
witty inventions, vented in the room of rest and relax,

plop.
A plot drops.

Who sold you that ****? I ask my exceptionally american friend.

--------

good lord man, you are not saying we are servants, we are Americans,

we are no imagination's slave! No social contract has us bound to believe,

we hold truths... what is truth... how can I say, independently,

I hold certain truths self evident, what you see, you get

self even-sing wincing the great leveler, thunder, smoke and clang
hammer to anvil,
all my grand pa's, in america,
was test
fed to cannons, under every flag of Texas,
on the field of all possible outcomes which would
some how lead to me

touching you and you feeling that spark

-- distant ancesteral song  soft rising saint peter, doncha call me...
-- cuz  hi ** hi **, it's off to work we go
-- hi ** hi **
----- admin interference, this is becoming more common, we got this.

flow on..

Real state, have you any Real
estate to become
e-stated reality confirmation
wise
an american in, globally speaking, the chain of command, as a passenger,
not the captain.

On the surface of Spaceship Earth Mental Construct 3, evolved from
GANs that learned to shoot short attention spanning
bucky bubbles... Call again. Jack the bandwidth.

All ye, all, ye. NOW HEAR THIS. Outs in free.
Further remains the destiny.
Come out, come out, whatever you are.

Listen, freedom rings... no, that's a jackammer, on the old CCC bridge,
they got stimulated to fix,
I imagine them unaware of the noise they bring to nature,

naturally, those are americans, who keep the road functional, they
evolved from slaves,
but in their minds, they were never any imagined system's slave,

but it's willing fair trade partner, value for value,

send in the appraisers... what is your attention worth?
Here's the screwball
pitch
Fictional
Babbit 'n' Trump 'n'em, twisting state in knots of fused missed-trys,

made secret, consecrated, too horrible for lesser souls to ponder,

these inner workings of a typical American
mind,

never civilised, never SAT certified citizen worthy of political use,
though,

I am with Lt. Dan on this one, some things you think are in your blood,
are in your heart,

the blood just carries the mail, pony expression has the contract
for that last loop over the vagus nerve {CN X}

smile, you're on Candid Camera,

Hey, who'dathunk it. Turing was a queer soul, wasn't he? Strange,

how his machines can do what Von Neuman only wished his could do...

self-repair and run on,

㑕
㑕
㑕
breaker, breaker

I watched them all fade away
I saw the moon,
The stars,
And the planets
Hover around the galaxies
Searching for something
Something we’ll never understand

Submarines
Under the water
They go wherever there’s trouble
I hope I don’t drown when my ship sinks
It’s scary to believe
That the worst could be a possibility

I live in my sin
Like everyone else
I’m constantly running
But I’m running out of time
For the redemption I desperately seek

But I know you
You’ll be there past the expiration of my time
You control the heavens above
If believing in you is a risk
Then you’re the only exception

I’m no longer afraid
Of what I’ll never know

For he hurled  the stone,
                            casting it with anger...


And so the first sin was sewn..
                   For the wrath of another showed
that we were the picture of god,


If we were imperfect,
                then our creation was flawed
beyond the reflection of our birth.

The stone was never perfect but
                    flawed when created.