Jamie keeps a middle aged white man imprisoned below his house as an involuntary *** slave.
Jamie also donates a few hundred dollars each month to human rights organisations around the world.
Sam spends a few hours most weeks attempting to draw people’s
attention to both local, and international slavery.
Sam neither donates money to human rights organisations, nor keeps slaves himself.
Whilst most people who are concerned about human rights issues have a problem with slavery, there is some disagreement as to the most effective way to address it.
Some are of the view that Jamie, despite his direct participation in slavery, is doing more for human rights than is Sam. The theory is that by donating money to human rights organisations, one can offset the harm associated with keeping a slave, and in Jamie’s case, since the donations are significant, Jamie has accrued a human rights violation credit.
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Dead poets have a death grip on my soul
with their wheedling words
Because that's where it all started:
darkness and then The Word
"Writing does not resurrect, it buries"
that's all I've ever wanted to do
to bury you -
I made a mistake
I dug your grave
in the recesses of my mind
where darkness resides,
where The Word thrives
it turns into a graveyard
and ghosts of the deceased poets
recite promises of resurrection
in this grey area
of grey matter
that doesn't matter
Because, really, there's no right or wrong
And don't even get me started on dead philosophers
I'm inherently selfish
which may be the only thing we have in common
When I finally join the dead poets society,
miscreants who hide behind the term poetic license,
This poem will bury you
This poem will always be about you
This poem is for me.
Or Graveyard Whistling
I am one to have my emotions under control.
Seventeen years of maneuvering around other’s
Peculiar mood swings
Taught me how to ignore
The chaos of human sentiment.
And so my features remain stoic since.
I have learned how to channel the anxiety
Manifesting itself in a jittery leg, shortness of breath,
And a discordant mind.
It is possible– Quite easy, actually–
To translate a torrent of worry
Into potential energy.
Three years in a closet
Is time enough to collect many pretty dresses
And forget there is ugliness in the world.
As much as I preach the virtue of honesty,
Lying has become second nature,
If only to keep these shark-infested waters
Calm for one more day.
I ought to be devoid of sentiment by now,
As much of a shell as that detestable Louisa Bounderby.
However, I recently found myself mistaken;
I am not a product of Utilitarianism.
Recently, I’ve been feeling–
With a loss of appetite,
A churning stomach herbal tea cannot alleviate,
And a racing heartbeat.
These symptoms are purely somatic
And therefore, quite frustrating.
I met a girl last week;
I wonder if I caught it from her.
— The End —