Here’s how you gain prosperity
Pick the type of person you’ll be
In picking, keep your mind intact
Don’t be acted upon, but act

Look around at great ones you know
Their successes easily show
That this one maxim they enact
Don’t be acted upon, but act

When trying on the victim stance
Or feeling passive, take a chance
Stay on task - remember this fact
Don’t be acted upon, but act

Don’t rely on muscles and brawn
Do act - not be acted upon
Memorize this, and never go back
Don’t be acted upon, but ACT

Scared to open these tattered wings of mine
In fear that they'll fall off
Putting on this dim halo
For all to see
Feeling nothing at all
But an icy darkness
Instead of my usual warmth
Whatever happened to
The holy angel I used to be

You took everything away from me
From my lock and key memories
That you sharpened
And continuously used against me
Down to the pure white cloak
That I use to wear so sacredly
Who knew that
Eventually
I would encounter the devil himself

the light in your eyes
is drawn away but the darkness of conversion
to someone you don’t want to be
society pulls and strains
until the light is ripped in two
and disintegrated
and the dust
is blown into oblivion
making the darkness a monster of their own imagination
you are filled to the brim with their ideas
of beauty and normality and acceptance
squandering any chance of revival
and forced to live among the social rocks
another victim of their rage and discontentment.

Talking wounds leaves me forever at the mercy of my pain.

‘But I am precious.’ says Pain.
‘Only I truly understand you.’
‘What would you do without me?’

Know myself for who I am and not for the label you would have me wear.

You pick me up with your fingers
A hungry, dominant stare lingers
Pulling my limbs apart
Your mouth reeks with 'Sweetheart.'

In this lifeless state of wonder
Glazed by societal views, dragging me under
Clasped tight with no escape
Wanting to scream, '****!'

I look at the massacre around me
and see.
I see battalions of men and women fighting.
I see the corpses of the defeated
with the memory of blades on them
and the gratification of the victors
with their bloodstained swords in hand.
I see friends and family weep for the fallen
and swear to avenge them.
I see mothers hold onto the cold bodies of their sons
and fathers getting ready to bury their daughters.
I see orphans too young and innocent
to fully comprehend what is happening.

Some fight out of anger and spite
and others out of pride and duty.
Some say it is for their kings and religions
others, for their honour and blood.
On either sides, pain and grief
outshine triumph and satisfaction.

Amongst the combatants,
A man sits on his brown horse
watching the massacre unfold.
Hair and beard like flames,
scars on his face
and eyes the color of the blood being shed before us,
he stares straight at me
as a man is stabbed in the back right in front of us.

His face is expressionless,
almost like a mask,
and the only decipherable emotion
is the burning rage dripping from his gaze.

I've been limping because of them,
but I've seen others paralyzed,
tortured,
or burned alive by them,
and I'm so scared
that next time,
I'll be torn apart,
and then no one will be left
to protect the next victim.