Modern pop-politics
is rife with conflicts
over freedom of speech,
The use of language,
The shape of the narrative,
'Phrasing'.
Knowledge
is always political, language
is often contested, consider
the language of drug use:
'Addiction', 'dependence', 'substance use disorder'.
Nevertheless a compassionate idealism strives
to contrast the weighty realism of suffering.

Alas, who can say whether drug use
is a set of choices, or the pattern of habits?
Vying between these drives, I try a few milligrams
of methoxyeticyclidine. This mortal coil, it harkens Absurdia.

She laid on stained sheets
that were once pure white,
desperate for love she gave her body away everynight,

With mascara running down her face,
on the floor she laid in the same place,  she didn't sleep in the bed unless it was for a ***** deed,

Soon a gentle touch awoke her from where she fell asleep,
A kinda touch that the soul feels so deep,
She looked up to his face
from his feet,
and
saw that his expression was sweet,
He took her body in his arms,
She couldn't walk from the ******
harm,

Then she felt shame when she realized, JESUS was His name,
In his arms she began to weep,
But he reassured her that he
was in her heart for keeps,

She could not express joy and peace,
after all, not after all of her sins,

She couldn't figure out...
how she ended up in the arm's of
The Prince of Peace,

She was made pure and clean,
White as a mountain snow scene,

God is great,
Kneel before it's too late,
Let Him heal you're wounds and scars, His love shines better than all the stars.

It's not about the bad times.
It's not about the good times.
It's about all the times.
The heartache and the pain.
The kisses in the rain.
There's so much for you to gain
If you don't worry
About your heart getting stained

my cold dead heart was made
absolutely empty
so,
they tell me i can
take a knife to it

though

it would be,
for me,
easier
to face myself

with my soul
having been stained

all the people i know
have stained my brain
with their misery and their woe,
don't they know?
i have them too
but i would never shovel them on you
it doesn't seem the right thing to do
when i could give you all love
and give woe the shove
i work it out myself
though there's still pain on the shelf
it's below me, not above
i have pain
because all i give is love

Sixty red balloons
Seeping air through barely-patched holes
Falling from the sky.

Red cheeks.
Flaming heart.
Soul stains and rusts
As it's consumed by lust.
But not for you.