In quiet woods, where gentle breezes play,  
And time drifts softly like the flowing stream,  
I ponder on the fleeting light of day,  
And cherish whispers of a tender dream.  

Though seasons change and shadows stretch their hands,  
Yet in the heart, a steadfast ember glows;  
For love, like ancient oaks on fertile lands,  
Endures the storm, and in its stillness grows.  

One day, beneath the arch of twilight skies,  
A wanderer shall seek what once was mine;  
And in that moment, when the spirit flies,  
The bonds of earth shall fade, and stars align.  

Then I shall rise, as nature’s breath returns,  
In every leaf, in every songbird’s call;  
For in the soul where deep affection burns,  
There lies a light that conquers even fall.  

“Rejoice!” it cries, “for love shall never cease;  
In memory’s embrace, we find our peace.”

It is with heavy heart I address this most honourable assembly concerning a most dishonourable practice now infecting our fair realm.
In this age of enlightenment, where Britannia proudly proclaims herself the cradle of liberty, we witness a spectacle most vile: the King's men hauling freeborn Englishmen to gaol for the crime of posting memes!
This year hath seen above three thousand souls apprehended under pretext of policing "offensive twitters" and "hateful scribblings" -
though methinks 'tis hatred of truth that motivates these censors.

A learned antiquarian now faces ruin for daring to discourse upon ***** slavery - a subject any man of conscience must ponder!
A schoolboy of tender years clapped in irons for sketching a jape about old Admiral Tom - where is the English humour that once buoyed our spirits?
They cloak their tyranny in Acts of Parliament - the Communications Statute (200000003 Anno Domini) and Public Order Edict (198888886) - yet apply them with the consistency of a drunk magistrate.
The radical firebrand who preaches sedition in Moorfields walks free, while the honest yeoman who questions why his parish swims with illegal foreigners finds himself in the dock.

Our courts become puppet shows. A vicar's daughter prosecuted for a "racist" quill-posting - her words twisted like a hangman's noose!
A Methodist street preacher charged with "transphobic heresy" for reading Leviticus - since when did Holy Scripture become a criminal manifesto?
Worse still, His Majesty's newly formed Thoughtcrime Constabulary compels schoolmasters and apothecaries to inform upon their charges.
Last Michaelmas, a child of nine winters was interrogated like a French spy for drawing Palestinian olive trees!

This is not justice - 'tis the Inquisition reborn, with Bow Street Runners playing the Dominican friars!
I say unto you: Beneath the painted smile of tolerance lurks a Leviathan that would make Hobbes blanch.
Our ancient rights - hard won at Runnymede - are traded for the illusion of safety.

Let every freeborn Englishman refuse this spycraft - let no informers amongst us!
Revive the coffeehouse tradition of vigorous debate - sans fear of the bailiff!
Teach our children virtue through Milton and Locke, not through some Ministry-approved catechism!
Shall we be remembered as the generation that surrendered Magna Carta for politeness?

The hour demands we choose: liberty with all its glorious mess, or chains gilded with progressive cant.

I copped a telescope—
small joint, commercial ****,
straight off the block,
but it ran me a grand.
A thousand bucks! Yo, that’s mad stacks,
a whole lotta bread.
But it’s worth the cheddar.
‘Cause this thing? It’s x200,
peepin’ far out, deep into the distance.
Eyeballs ain’t built for that stretch,
but this scope? ****, it reaches…
not the stars or the moon, nah,
just the window of that high-rise across the way.
Now I’m posted, spyin’ on the neighbors smashin’.

Not ‘cause I can’t pull up some *** on the net—
that ain’t it.
I’m clockin’ ‘em—
how they live, how they beef, how they bang—
‘cause I got this hunch
they doin’ all that **** better than me.
Not sayin’ I’m pressed or green-eyed,
but every time I think someone’s out here outshinin’ me,
I freeze up, mind spinnin’ like a hadron collider.

To the cat who ain’t good with what he got,
who’s buggin’ over life’s big “why,”
who’s always chasin’ somethin’ fatter,
never hyped on himself,
who’s mad for star-gazin’—
that dude’s the one peekin’ through the scope,
catchin’ astronauts up in the ISS,
floatin’ past in low orbit,
starin’ back through the porthole,
flippin’ me the bird.
‘Cause once you touch the stars,
all you wanna do is squint back down,
to Earth,
at you—
the broke-***, washed-up loser.

I stared at the cinderblock wall, kudzu clawin’ up wild,  
A green chokehold sprawlin’ ‘cross this Tennessee hollow,  
Life flickers in me, a match struck on a humid night,  
But leukemia’s creepin’, a month to ***** my candle’s glow.  
Sixteen and I’m done, no worse than folks who linger here,  
The sun meltin’ over the Smokies, the sweetgum air—why ain’t it mine?  
I despise death’s slow drag, its damp, cold fingers on my neck,  
Not scared—just ******, a fire ragin’ in veins gone icy.  

A dream once slunk in, like a copperhead through the pines,  
Cross my warped floorboards, me froze, watchin’ it glide,  
No fangs, no strike, just sickness coilin’ in its hush,  
Woke me to the truth—my end’s stalkin’ these backroads quiet.  
Why me leavin’ while others grill burgers in the dusk?  
This land’s too pretty—cornfields gold, mockin’ my rot,  
I’d toss a Molotov at it all, this carefree Cumberland sprawl,  
If my arms had the grit to torch my **** fate.  

The world churns on, deaf to my hollerin’ from the porch,  
Beauty cuts deep—crickets chirpin’ a song I can’t keep.  
Everybody’s fightin’ to breathe, no soul less than me,  
But what’s it worth when death’s got my number dialed?  
I chuck my truth like a deer stand spear, unmissable,  
To God, to life, to folks cruisin’ Main Street clueless,  
At sixteen, dread’s my gospel, my rebel yell,  
A war cry howled, so this whole county might pay up.  

Life’s a gift for us about to get yanked away,  
We cling tight to what’s rippin’ loose in the wind,  
My ache, my envy for kids racin’ four-wheelers, unborn,  
No hate—just a love for livin’, sharp as a switchblade.  
Through cussin’ and jealousy’s hot sting, I thread a tune,  
A jagged love song hummin’ over the TVA hum,  
Reckon this truth, let your own gripes loose like hounds,  
I ain’t kneelin’ to anything . And I am proudly mad.

You are the scorpion’s husk,
flattened by a bootheel’s careless arc,
left to dry in the dust
behind a trailer where the night
whispers through cracked vinyl siding.

You are the rancher’s spine—unbending,
unyielding—who spits at the stars
and calls their flickering weakness.
No lament, no plea, just the grind
of teeth against the dark.
(Whiskey burns, but not like silence.)

You are the highway’s endless hum,
the lie of motion without progress,
the contract that says move or starve.
No off-ramp, no rest—just the weight
of a rig’s stale breath and the ache
of another sunrise still too far.

You are the code that writes itself into oblivion,
a syntax of curses nested deep,
each bug a quiet unraveling.
No user manual, no fix—just the glow
of a screen that outlasts every dream.

You are the plumber’s wrench at 2 a.m.,
turning someone else’s excess into labor,
kneeling on marble, fishing out
the clogs of a gilded drain.
No thanks, just the echo of water
finally swirling down.

You are the fire’s last gasp,
the ember that believes, for a moment,
it might still hold back the night—
before the dark leans in,
and the cold does what cold does best.

Child support’s what you need, a new dude, the old one’s ghosted,
And Chatty Cathys who nods along, never speaking nonsense.
You reach out to folks, craving love, empathy, and care—
But they hit you with, “Chill, let it slide, don’t even stare.”
What’s that even mean— “let it slide, let it go—where?”
Why don’t y’all just bounce with your nonsense and bang your heads on a wall somewhere?

Yeah, I’ll leave, since you insist, it’s crystal clear—
Cause I’ve annoyed you terribly,
and in every way.
But still, I’ll cling to a pointless hope,
that maybe—just maybe—you’ll call me back, and I’ll cope.

But while I’m not called back, with Chatty Cathys in tow,
I’ll hit up church—been meaning to—join the holy show.
Don’t trip, it’s just me, that’s how I roll,
I’ll go there—cross my heart—pay my toll.
Light a candle for myself—for my soul’s repose.
I’ll burn in hell for now, I s'pose.

And when I’m roasted in that fiery pit, you’ll yell,
“Serves you right!”
“Why’d you ride for every clown in sight?
Go smash her, you freak, you hopeless case.”
But how can I, when I’m already dust in this place?
I’m stuck in hell from the last life’s race.
And you’ll snap back, “Aha! So you had it all mapped!
You’re a creep, through and through—burn in hell, you’re trapped!”
I’ll sigh, “Here we go again…”
And off I’ll stomp, my fate sealed, my end.

So I roll up to this spot, now like home to me—
Smells like fire and decay, far as I can see.
And there, the Devil himself steps out, whining weak,
“Yo, what’s this? Look who’s back! Man, I’m beat!
I can’t even punish you no more—I’m fresh outta tricks,
And space? Bro, it’s packed to the bricks.
Your wife—****, she’s fire, no cap!
Not just her curves, but her soul’s on tap.
We tried to learn from her, but flopped,
And in the end, we all just dropped.
A line of fools like you clings to my gate,
‘Cause that dude with heaven’s keys procrastinates.
He saves his juice, the stingy hack,
Dodges his job, won’t cut no slack.
If anyone shows at his door,
He checks with your wife, then shows ‘em the floor.
He lets no one into heaven’s halls,
‘Cept Lady D—she’s saintly, after all.”

I bounced back—and since then, I’ve wandered—
Here and there, in circles, I’ve squandered.
This twisted life chews me up, rips me apart.
I’m neither here nor there—just lost, no start.
I’m in some quantum state, it’s wild.
Like being bent over—but in reverse style.
So be it—I’ll vibe with this murky grind.
Six feet under, I’ll still be the same,
And life won’t teach me no game.

Just make sure, oh Lord, my wife loves me
again.

I stepped out — to buy some bread.
The rain, a silver needle, embroidering the diaphanous gauze of the atmosphere.
Thoughts, like feral hounds, prowled and dragged me
astray, to the wrong street.
And there —
the abyss.

No grocery here.
Only the void, yawning wide, insatiable, ravenous,
a Grand Canyon, misplaced in the geometric monotony
of concrete blocks — a scar on the skin of the ordinary.
Who sanctioned this?
Who gouged this chasm into the fabric of the mundane,
this rupture in the tapestry of the everyday?

We inhabit a world where everything
appears to matter —
blueprints, ideals, the ceaseless scramble for triumph,
the Sisyphean climb toward some illusory summit.
But time, that insidious thief, that silent eroder,
dissolves it all into the silt of oblivion.
What endures?
Laughter.

Laughter — not mirth, but a gasp,
a surrender to the absurd, a white flag waved
at the futility of it all.
It is the sound of a man
teetering on the precipice,
howling into the void
and hearing only his own echo reverberate,
a hollow chorus of his own insignificance.

But nothing matters only
when you are solitary,
when the world contracts to the size of your skull.
No wife, no child, no anniversaries to commemorate.
No one to observe, to decipher, to adore.
Laughter then is not liberation —
it is the wail of the forsaken,
the cry of a soul unmoored, adrift in the vast, indifferent sea.

Imagine the edge.
The abyss below, fathomless, voracious,
its maw gaping, hungry for meaning.
You can shriek, sob, summon aid —
but no one answers.
And so you laugh.
Not because it is droll,
but because it is the sole retort left to you,
the last weapon in your arsenal against the void.

If we cannot alter anything —
if the gears of fate grind on, indifferent to our pleas —
why even endeavor?

Insignificance is not a curse.
It is a peculiar emancipation,
a shedding of the weight of expectation.
Your blunders, your trepidations, your aspirations—
they are sandcastles, ephemeral and frail,
washed away by the tide of eternity.
Yet there is splendor in the act of construction,
in the fleeting defiance of entropy.

Even stone crumbles.
Even the most impregnable bastions succumb to time’s relentless siege.
Laughter cannot nourish the famished,
cannot solace the lovelorn.
It is a spark, evanescent,
a brief luminescence in the abyssal dark,
a fleeting exertion to convince yourself
that anguish and torment are illusory,
that the weight of existence is but a shadow on the wall.
And it is, perversely, amusing.