In the gallery of a town, art was duly contained
and cared for carefully without contamination.
There was a painting there, painted with oil
paints that rained and formed a picture of a bird
on a canvas of vivid blues, browns, and greens
that fixed eyes on it like webs to hair.
The artist spoke:

“We are all swallows: proud, free, agile.
We are all oceans: formidable, hostile.
We are all stormy weather: thunderous.
We are all columns: supportive, calloused.

Entwined we will walk,
down to and up to the sands,
into elixirs made with salt;
swelling our joyous hands.”

Men, women and children all strolled by,
and let not one of them see the lows and highs
of the artist's soul. A boy stood there with
no-one: his uncorrupted eyes walking up and
down the mined canvas. He felt no sand
under his feet; he felt no wooden skin and
complexion in his hands.
He spoke:

“We are not swallows: ashamed, caged, stiff.
We are not oceans: defenceless, mild.
We are not stormy weather: soundless
We are not columns: defective, defiled.

Like slaves, we sing
on top of the wings
of new-born Spring.

The ground we sowed and toiled,
reaped dangers of fantasy untold.
Soul-reaping bird-singers
singing the siren song to us.
But we must not fuss.

I bleed the colours
of a deadly rose garden.
Red, yellow, blue, green:
colourless eyes remain unseen.”

"What is loves biggest fear?"
He whispered.


"Time."
She spoke back.

How did we get here?
Where we hide our thoughts,
And only speak in fear,
Just so we don't get caught,
So we keep to ourselves our opinions and ideas,
How did we get here?

How did we get to this?
Where we have a limit of a way to think,
And we limit our right to freedom of speech,
All just so we don't offend thee,
How did we get to this?

The men who are meant to serve,
Can't handle the truth,
So we don't tell it as it is,
Coz we know what they'll do,
From courts to jail and at times beating,
Yes that's true!,
So it all comes down to what they'll choose,
And they smile like its all good,

So we have to hold on to our dictionary for a consult,
Just so when we speak we don't accidentally insult,
'cause you know the big men can't take a joke,
Or a poke and what not,

And its not that we can fight,
We can't take them up in a round with all their might,
They'd squash us down like a bug,
And then just shrug,

How did we get here?,
Its not like they need it to earn our respect,
We've already voted for them,
How do they not get it?,
We did it with clear mind,
And know that they ain't perfect,
Why do we have to regret?

So I sit here just asking,
How did we get here,
I thought things would be better,
Instead we all now have to look over our shoulder,
How did we get here

Speech of Freedom

I will listen – now tell me what you think
And tell me what you think, not what you feel
Not what you were commanded by bullhorns
Not chants beginning with “Hey! Hey!
     **! **!”

I will listen – now tell me that you think
You, not a crowd, a hive, a swarm, a shoal
You, not a mood, a whim, a committee
You, not a photocopied manifesto

Because I want to hear you – you, not echoes
I will listen – now tell me what you think

I don't need to look into a mirror to see that I'm turning into you.
I already know that I am slowly deteriorating.
Nightmares plague me,
So horrible I am trembling and barely breathing when I wake.
There isn't a single person who makes me feel safe.
You always told me you were wary of everyone.
Including yourself.
The words that fall from my lips are formal, protected, carefully calculated.
My words sound like their coming from your mouth,
Like you have possessed me and will never let me free.
The wanderlust is the most painful.
I'm pulled by the sharp knife twisted into my gut.
Wanderlust makes me reckless. Wanderlust slowly kills me.
Tell me, darling,
Am I haunting you like you're haunting me?
The further we are apart, the more we see we are alike.
Before too long you'll look in the mirror.
You'll see my face instead of your own.

I have stories in my head.
I have feelings in my heart.
I have songs in my mouth.
But the words don't flow.

I want to write of adventure.
I want to sing of good times.
I want to express how much I love you.
But my mind forms these thoughts too slow.

I want to tell the stories of heroes I've dreamed up.
I want to compose ballads that stick in people's heads.
I want to write of love and life as I've experienced them.
But as I grasp for the words, from my hand they go.

I want to write. I should start today.
But here, in this moment, I don't know what to say.

PRESIDENT TRUMPS SPEECH TO CONGRESS
IS POWERFUL STRONG AND TRUE
PUTTING AMERICA FIRST WITH
STRENGTH AND CONVICTION RENEWED


HE FINALLY HAS A PRESIDENTS STRENGTH
AND SPEAKING FROM THE HEART
PUTTING THE AMERICAN PEOPLE FIRST
THE NEW AMERICA WILL NOW START


HE DELIVERED A SPEECH GOOD FOR AMERICA
AND FOR THE WORLD NATIONS TO
PRESIDENT DONALD TRUMPS VISION
IS MADE FOR PEOPLE LIKE YOU