life's a building
one day,
it'll get demolished
or
you'll build it higher
and higher
and it'll stand forever

Nonsense isn’t clear when self-induce becomes derogatory. Switching off claims to promote a zero-questioning start. Only for calamities to raise the bars of victory without circumstance. Pleading you to forget what you saw and repeat after me. Nonsense without structure, is relaxing too much. Does relaxing come after nonsense when zero questioning permits the struggle of structure? I digress for the infinite that is suggesting you relax when it comes to ******* interiors giving no rise to pressure that exceeds balance. Balance in the face of consequence. Consequence in the doubt of honor. Honor in the… WAIT! It’s nonsense, right? ALL OF IT!! EVERYTHING!!! Plain examples of zero switches without direction. Promoting the structure of pleading facts rubbing with calamities. Ruining what shouldn’t have been. Illusions! All of it. Claiming something, which isn’t a benefactor to logic raising circumstances toward rising the bars of victory. Doesn’t make any sense, does it? Any of this ringing a bell people?! Good. Just relax and create your own structure. Even how awfully permitting to other appeals it might seem. Structure is without consequence. Relaxing about regular customs to oneself, permits the desire to act with a calm disposition. Everything being a confused debate of nonsense. Only adding nonsense over something that’s already a relaxing structure. Is structure without relaxation? Enough details… I’m out! Structure your own appeals?!

I was a lawful good
Boring, obsessive
Neurotic
But still good

I started leaning away
Let go of the rules
I became neutral good
I’d bend or break the order
But in the end
I’m still good

Maybe I’m even pushing
Into chaotic good
And maybe I’m okay with it
I like it
And overall
My heart is
Still good

So when you say
I’m not myself
You mean I’ve dropped the structure
Released my grip on order
And that’s what I needed
Maybe I’ll bend it a little far
Maybe create a bit of chaos
But that’s okay
I’m still me
I’m still good

We sit, stare and judge,
Our opinions do not budge,
We are so right and they're so wrong,
The papers tell us they want us gone,
They tell us they're obsessed with terrorism,

Sitting safe in your car, or at home in a chair
Judging and complaining
about the beard and the hair,

"Why won't they be like us?"
Why can't they integrate?"
The only answer must be... it's because of their faith

Have you heard the news?
Tweet, hashtag repeat,
They've done it again!
They want us all dead!
prayers and thoughts for the women, children and men,

Blame that young man, with the gun in his hand, with the hate and intentions to do something bad,
We don't ask why.
Just run and go cry,
Mosques found with bacon outside.

Picture it now, you're young and your brown,
Growing up in a mostly white town,
Tough to fit in, grew up a Muslim,
Through no choice of your own,

Can't get a job,
Muhammad or John?
John gets the job every time.

Stressed and defeated,
your **** is depleting,
It's the only thing that helps you to cope.

Alone on your PC,
Receiving a tweet,
Somebody sells you a dream,

Come live with us, where the fun never stops,
We praise Allah in our own way,

Over here we're the same, no more loneliness or decay, come and live with us in the Islamic State.

That's just the start,
the hate causes a spark
and soon it's a fire of revenge.

You can see why it works,
Loneliness hurts
and someone has offered to take it away,

After a while,
you lose your smile,
You're told about the wrongs of the "enemy"
Then you wage war,
barely even twenty-four,
and you've become a pawn in the game.

Religion just fuels it,
Twists and confuses it,
Gives you a REASON to hate,

If they don't look the same,
they must not be okay,
must be a danger to the ones I love,

A small minded view,
So it'll continue,
We'll keep fearing what we don't understand.

Religion isn't the problem,
in fact, I envy them,
The ones that believe they have found peace,

The problem is far deeper,
complex and confusing,
But religion is just the tip of the 'berg

Social structure,
immigration,
money in the wrong hands,
racism,
All these issues, and more

But let's point at the religion,
Not analyse the decision,
Of why the boy detonated his vest,

Twisted by hate, manipulated by fear,
But all we see is a beard.

be careful,
                   you wouldn't want too s
                                                             l
                                                              i­
                                                                ­p
                                                               ­     o
                                                          ­        r
                               sl
                                   i
                                       d         e  specially fo
                                          e                   ­         r  
much structure i    s                                       you
     i    p    r   a   t                                                    t
       m   o   t   n                                                      h
        ­    p           d
                a                                           to be  creative
                    r           n                                       o
                       i           e                                     n
                         t           e                                   t
                            i          d                       ­          r
                             v          e                                o
                   ­           e           d                               ll
                                                              ­              e
                                                 ­                            d

Never ask a poet what they think
about the things that matter.
They will not give a definite answer
for their hearts tend to ache
somewhat too severely
and even then some things
are better left unsaid
unfinished
in a black and white world
where any shade of grey is a crime
somewhere over the rainbow
in a place where it is the safest
to not be there at all
or else you are certainly the one to blame
even if the lace is buried deep within
your overwhelming guilt and shame
hidden under all the what ifs and pleats
and somewhere deeper yet
there is the quietest of voices
too afraid to speak of the bruises
left on the inside of her thighs
and within her heart
the voice of reason that tells you
please don’t walk down that alley
keep your friends close
and the keys in your hand closer
keep your head up high
and your hopes down low
or whatever else makes sense
in this dog eat dog world
where everything you will ever know
will be shredded and recycled
oh, if only
to be crushed into a pulp
and spoon-fed to another generation
diluted with careful consideration
into a day-in day-out nine to five
not even a cog in the machine
a ***** at best
and you will be *******
tightened up more and more
until you can’t hold it together
and whatever it takes
falls apart into pieces
broken glass on the asphalt
a hole in the wall
that sinking feeling
where a soul should be
but the angels don’t visit anymore
or answer our prayers
the line is always busy
there is always something else
something more important
a bullet in the bible
escalating into emergency
but who is out there for the unarmed boy
dying on the sidewalk
misjudged for the colour of his skin
who is out there to stop the hand of a father
suspended in mid-air
with the children cowering at his feet
who is out there for the American dream
turning into a global nightmare
who can tell the pending future
staring down the barrel of the gun
wondering which side you should be on
and what of that which you call freedom
only to trade it for martyrdom
what of candour and justice
and their antonymous nature
what of the artists and the poets
and everyone else that took a shot
but didn’t even come close
living in a daydream
playing from the same broken record
telling us that there is meaning
and there is worth in the things we do
except that from time to time
the needle would skip
distorting the vision
and at times like these
it’s the easiest to look away
for every scratch on the surface of reality
encourages you simply to
pull the trigger

No.
I will not, I refuse
to let this get the best of me.
The pen is a blade. I slit my wrist
and pour my heart out onto the page
instead. This is a sacrifice
I am willing to make.
I will tear myself apart
on my own terms.
If I cannot do it myself,
who else will?