I always find it funny,
How some people relish judging,
Others, when their own lives aren’t,
Perfectly pristine.
Would it be so hard,
To keep those thoughts within?
Instead of putting another down,
With foolish whims.
Who are you to decree,
What’s morally okay,
Or what’s socially acceptable,
When you’re broken in your own way?
Stay in your bubble,
Sometimes it’ll keep you out of trouble.
If your life is a mess,
Then I don’t need you telling me how to live mine!
But, I digress…

The arsonist burned everything to ash.
He’d already been hurt in the past.
Due to his fear and lack of cheer,
He’d burn the world down,
Back to the ground.
He’d never let anyone touch him,
Their fingers would be set aflame.
Who needs companionship?
The arsonist thought everyone was the same.
They’d all burn him,
So he’d burn them first.
They’d all hurt him,
So he’d make sure he’s the worst.
So no one will bother,
As he pours the kerosene.
He lights the match,
Stares at the flame,
Wishing that his heart could take the pain.
She left him for another guy,
And he always wondered why,
She betrayed him after he had promised his life,
And stabbed him in the back with a knife.
He flicked the flame into the fuel.
Heard the symphony of crackling.
He’d take the whole world with him,
As it all burned down, he was cackling.

Is the villain just,
A broken, bleeding, hurting,
Human, or not?

Perhaps their pain is,
Justified. But does it clear,
Their slate, leaving crumbs?

Do they feel remorse?
Do they feel any regret, or
Are they too broken?

Listen to their tale,
You do not have to agree.
Show them empathy.

Such a simple thorn,
Suffocating my nose and,
Clogging up my brain.

The hill I will die on,
Is that most battlefields aren’t worth dying on.
Some people see a mob,
And grab their pitchforks and their torches,
Without even understanding,
What they’re fighting for.
Perhaps they love the bloodshed,
Perhaps they love the gore,
Perhaps they feel righteous indignation,
And are adamant to settle the score.
It could be some primal need to fight,
Or some could be sure that they’re right.
Either way, I don’t see the point,
I understand that sometimes a war is just,
Most times, it feels like a bust.
A waste of money,
A waste of time,
A waste of precious human lives.
All for what? Some measly land?
How greed corrupts the righteous hands.
So the hill I will die on,
Is that some battles aren’t worth fighting,
That they aren’t worth the pain.
The lives they ruin,
The families they break,
The friendships covered in contusions,
The human souls that are broken and bruised.
All for what?

Waiting for the one,
Single perfect moment when I,
Finally, feel free.

When I breathe and it,
Feels like I am alive and,
Everything is fine.

When that moment comes,
Appreciation will spread,
Smiling happily.

Sometimes when the world feels too bilow,
I cover up my ears.
I fade into the shadows,
And wipe my dripping tears.
Nothing ever seems to be policanary,
Always moving further on,
With no destination…
Tune out the jabberwocky.
Ignore the noise.
Maybe I’m a crybaby,
Or am I poised?
Listening to all the shouting,
Drowning in all the loudness,
Shuddering at my plonious thoughts,
That fuel my fears.
What am I to do?
I must continue,
To push through,
This kilomuny, trepidary,
Oligarny, relinbary,
Foolish jabberwocky.