We stand inside
Stale air compartments
That we call apartments
Because we feel alone here

We spend our time
Earning daily bread
Feeding the constant dread
That wants to consume you

We see our lives
Plastered on screens
The eyes of machines
Ever watching us

We rip ourselves
From empty seats
Walking crowded streets
To find a sense of purpose

©KNL

In an ideal
joy-and-happiness-society,
would every person
humanely
care for
their own feelings
and the feelings
of every person
in their society?

Hidden deep in the galley at sea far from the front
Washing pans and floors and sometimes onions
Never a shot fired at nor its distanced boom heard
Now proudly badged, poor, unemployed, a veteran
Strutting in the town square openly carrying
Seeing fear and respect in mocking eyes
And gratitude in sneering smiles and sarcastic lips
But utter despair and pity to those that truly loved
Now old, lonely, far from those who once cared
Sharing truths on the net when away from Facebook jail
And calling out fake news with evangelistic fervour
But touch Trump, and even jihadists cow before his ferocity

It's the kind of heartbeat
that pushes you forward

For what's a glow but a holy light?

That amber liquid far from insipid
Like molten honey but drawn from a tap,
Bitter or dark, the choices quite stark,
God's malted ale, nature's true sap.

Vikings grew strong, strengthened their bond,
Giving them courage for mayhem galore,
A beer in their hand, they pillaged the land
Never quite feeling tired or sore.

The Celts used for curing, Egyptians for luring
Their gods from the heavens bribed to partake,
The English just drank as their water so stank,
Beer their solution to gulp for life's sake.

Wine lovers admit that their glass needs
be sipped
While describing aromas of berries and earth,
No such constraint, nor need for restraint
For drinkers of ale are freewheeling from birth.

So let raise a jug or a frothy filled mug
While watching a game and eating junk food,
Nothing is wetter, more luscious and better
Than a cold tasty beer when expertly brewed.

It’s not really difficult:
the golden rule,
walking in others’ shoes,
giving two ***** about
the lives of others.
It’s right there.
Has been since the days
of squatting in caves
planning mammoth takedowns

But the clowns have weaponised caring
to become a choice.

It’s not. Raise your voice.

There was a little dash once
that lead me from here - here…
sometimes it showed me time
and how long and short it can be
from Christmas – my birthday or
from Thursday – Friday
and other times,
when I dot my i’s cross my t’s
this little dash adds a little extra..
from – to +

sometimes i wonder about the kind of girl i would have grown up to be if my trauma had never ceased to exist.

if i had never spent decades of my youth trying to mold my imperfections to the male gazes' views on what it meant to be a lady. 

would i still have lived in the sin that led me to the wages of death or would i have lived freely with the spirit of the holy that showered me with serenity?

would i still have fought so hard for the freedom and solace that had never belonged to the violence of the patriarchy or would i have sat crossed legged in a chair like the woman my ancestors would have rendered me to be?

would i still have let the boys that masqueraded as men, see the forbidden depths of my God given body or would i have clothed myself with competence and capability? if my trauma had never ceased to exist, would this version of me just live to be seen as an example of who i never wanted to be?