It was the running Roman Legionary,
Who hid from troops his own,
And spoke of evil men did do,
For it was why he ran alone.

It was the serf, an ex-soldier,
Who spoke against the sword;
Yet for these words which he did speak,
He earned the sword as his reward.

It was the humbled noble Lord,
Who wrote from tower's tall;
Against all endless border wars,
As it caused good men to fall.

It was the musketman in red,
Who stepped-on out of line;
Opting not to die so still,
As he said, "This life is mine."

It was the trenched machine-gunner,
Who chose his targets quick,
And wished for more than anything,
To cease this endless click.

It was the Spaniard,
Who fought Spain,
And knew the truth was dark;
Yet fought-back fists of fascist pride,
His mission now, to leave a mark.

It was the Frenchman,
Chased by fright,
Who scrambled for the shore;
Escaping from his bled homeland,
He died of bombs in Britain's war.

It was the prisoner of Korea's gore,
Who sat down with the Reds;
Speaking in appeasing awe,
He saved his severed head.

It was the man in Vietnam,
Who was forced the cross the sea;
To fight a war he wasn't for,
Against his will, he stood as free.

It was the Roman,
And the serf;
It was the noble Lord.

It was the musketman in red,
And the dead Spaniard,
Who fought for freedom,
Spoke for peace,
And dreamed to see with their own eyes,
The human mind, taught to be wise,
And cease these endless lies;
To end the "me's" and "mores" and "my's,"
And to remove mans dark disguise.

Happiness is a pursuit long forgotten,
As men seek material wealth.
Happiness is a need always sought,
Yet men think more money means wealth.

Happiness is an emblem unknown,
Yet it sits in plain view,
With it's meaning, not shown,
As the bluster and cold looks of men dressed in black,
Walk streets in dark-fit tone.

Structure steals from nature,
Denying old flow,
Of stream water in endless cycles;
Instead they ask you to row.

"Left, right, left, right, left, right,
Correct!" "Please choose a side,
As it is your souls we collect."

Your spirits, your mind, and what makes you human,
Will be taken from flow a thousand years old,
And told just what to do.

Told just what to do,
By you, and you only;
As choice is clear advocate,
Of an existing reality,
Which sifts with the tides of the dead and the dying,
Despite all illusions, you've stopped with you're trying.

When I look out from the smudged and cracked windows of home,
I know there's no place quite the same as right here;
No place I could find that quite catches my ear,
And no place quite the same that can swallow my fears,
To the depths of this heated and comfortable box,
In which I am protected by numerous locks,
From intruders and bandits,
Salesmen and clerks;
I am the legal intruder,
And for me, that's what works.

Yet I'm here when, in fact, I am meant to be there;
Not far from my home,
I'm meant to be learning whats fair.

I am meant to be learning what's right and what's wrong,
Yet 6 hours of my time a day seems quite long,
To be spending on verbs, nouns and pronouns,
On algebra, fractions, and abnormal word sounds.

This life is not theirs; this life is all mine,
Such an old and used system would appear to be right,
Yet I beg to differ, as revolution now squeaks,
To push through the systems cracks and cause leaks,
In which free-thinking filters the words of the old,
Who believe themselves better, for they're trained and so bold.

When I look to society, what is it I see?
Is it a throng of a thousand people who seem to be free?
Not quite, yet at the same time, that seems quite close,
They are free in a box, in which authority is the host.

"Civilization has to be defended against the individual,
And its regulations, institutions and commands are directed to that task."*
Quite an obvious command,
And it seems that at last,
Man is learning to embrace what they each see as free;
And it does not simply stop at being free to simply be,
It goes beyond such in mind, matter, soul, and in trust;
For it is the systems denial,
Towards which I lust.

The institutions, and nations,
Corporations, news stations,
Stateism, classism, all attempt to control,
Who I am, what I do, where I go, who I meet;
They tell me to relax, and just take a quick seat;
Yet I know what I want from life is free feet,
To be who I am,
And take all the heat.
To do what I do,
And ignore what's 'elite.'
To go where I go,
And control, as such, my feet.
To meet who I meet,
And next to them, take a seat.

I am not a name,
And I am not a number.
I am always awake in my mind,
As I slumber.

Just as the pyramids would,
In the deserts of Cairo,
Snow-capped mountains gleam distant,
As if Kings on the Main.

This distance complete,
Through the eyes of the beholder,
As from a sea-sided office,
We with watch with wonder lust.

Bright streetlights,
And red lights, and green lights,
And stop signs,
As decadent name-change,
Perceives as if older,
As bigger, as bolder.

Musicians and artists,
Poets and Marxists,
Authors and boxers,
All convene to sing songs,
As egalitarianism,
Sings us a calm, blinded lullaby,
As the idea to be grasped,
In this young mind of mine.

They call this no small town,
In which not one arcade resides;
Gun crime is never,
In percent, as we ride,
A wave of communal,
Small-town "world peace,"
We'll take some money,
Off the governments lease.

In a sense we are distant,
Different, contesting,
A world which conforms,
As if all can and will be,
A slave to a master,
Sociopathic disaster,
As we run faster and faster,
Away from that stream.

We are the masters of our fate,
As we rate the world's hate,
On a scale from 1 to 10.

We are secluded,
Yet unconfused, not diluted;
We are more aware of this world,
Than it is of itself.

We set the sidelines,
As guidelines to life,
As we watch with some bias,
As we remain neutral to strife.

We are the Power,
And we are the River,
Ripped from the main-stream,
We create; we are free.

Men clad cleanly, polished boots and bowler hats,
Women wearing short skirts or long dress,
Boys no longer boys deny their old,
With rock and rap, skate shoes; how bold!

Indifferently they carry on,
I am you, and you are him,
She is fat and she is slim,
Registered in heads dead depth,
As we pretend to see no man who chokes on crystal ****.

Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who cram these city streets;
A glance is but acknowledgment,
As all shuffle in quick feet.

To say the least, we will pay none,
To those who are not us;
To say the least, we think we've won,
Ignore the drunk mans fuss.

Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who view in black-and-white;
No middle-ground perceives a frown,
As they sleep amid streetlights.

The morning rush and nightly blitz,
As people scurry too,
Destinations, dealing smiles;
Self-help books to start anew.

As talk through text, online, or phone,
Dominates the daze,
Indifferently, ignore eachother,
"Nothing need be said inside this maze."
The CEO, he acts as King,
With peasants treated well;
Their brains blunted to buried states,
"He's bad; but he'll get his due in hell."

Everyday they rise early,
To catch the mornings speed;
"I do this by the clock because,
A life, so rich, I'll lead."

"Conforming kills the mindless soul,
To fight off human urge;"
You're free, yet unaware of this,
So conforming, you won't purge.

Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who, like zombies, follow sway,
A human hand on island sand,
'I saw him not,' or so I say.

A single moment in a city,
Bright lights glow on lady's pretty,
Cars and trucks blow smoke to sky,
Stoners in apartments fly,
To states of mind which bring them thoughts,
Of yes and no's, of do's and nots.

Distance means quite next to none,
For those who walk, or ride, or run,
To city's center,
Pulse like blood,
If time moved faster,
I'm sure it would.

In one apartment friends spend time,
Making raps of rhythm, rhyme;
Of girls they met a day ago,
With insults, they go toe to toe.

In the next room, one man cries,
As his wife closes her eyes,
For the last time, there she dies;
Health care bills were on the rise.

For them treatment became a treat,
Self-treated infected feet,
Spread to dangerous areas;
Out of sight of care, she was.

Tragedy, a room away,
Happiness, on the balcony,
Indifference, found just down the road,
Angers automatic mode,
On gangs which gloat with guns and girls.

The streets lost in lights dizzy whirls,
This city is its own small world.

Radiant shine from the window pane glass.

Fire burning, a heart which to tie,

He knows it won’t last.

Power from response, response from power,

Not to which matters to him,

As he stares at that tower.

Leaning against the sky which glows blue,

As if taking a bow as to start anew.

He feels trapped in the norm of the way he calls life,

As his heart it does burn,

With dark civil strife.

One moment hopes there,

The next it runs dry.

Little triggers to pull,

As to force him to cry.

He knows not why his sorrow,

Trapped deep in his bones,

Continues to pelt,

Just as hard hitting stones.

He is drowning,

Lost deep in the blue.

He remembers the voice saying,

“ Who knows?

The next one is you.”

His body does work,

In the dark of the night.

Just as a clandestine,

Preparing to fight.

When he does find deep sleep,

It finds him unwell.

His body does writhe,

His imagination swell.

That blurry dark dot,

You can’t see on the map,

Holds its figure in place,

Unready to snap.

It hides in the shadows,

Making his past but a ghost.

He maintains none but fragments,

To which he clings to the most.

Just as he writes this,

A loud screech does pierce the day,

As if a blind hobo grabs his shoulders,

To say, “Be afraid, for this future,

As much as is mine, may drip onto you,

In a dark, shaded line.

You will not see it, for you see none but black,

But it will grab you,

And hoist you off track.”

Later that night,

He does look in the mirror,

Reflecting the words,

Which should make him see clearer.

The dark will not pass,

With but one little light,

He must search very quickly,

For that one spoken sight.

Whether he finds it,

Is not mine to say.

He must look in himself,

If he desire the day.