Some fools are born, conditioned by fate,
And they, like all, still procreate.
All useful knowledge flee their minds;
Ignorance fulfill these swine.
And while they swing and cheat for joys,
The watchful eyes of their little boys
Take a glance at what they see,
And what they see is “a bigger me.”
Their little girls, in company of dolls,
On occasion foresee what befall
On them, too, as they soon explore --
An impending battle of love and war.
But then, there exists that little kid
Whose *** and gender shall remain amid
A cloud of quantum mystery;
Their wisdom calls more urgently.
And as this kid sees life unravel
Along Lacanian stages of travel,
Concerned are they with all fuss and mess,
To which most adults do not confess.
As one parent lacks all the care,
The other lives a life unfair.
In times of chaos and audacious cuss
Dear, vengeful killer, Oedipus
Consumes all facets of the mind
Of the little kid who must confine
All pain, and hatred, and all rage,
Enough to place one in a cage,
While free the bird whose wings to fly
Have been broken off, now left to die;
In part, by diabolical norms
That invade a home in all shapes and forms.
But the kid looks up at the two,
Then whispers quietly, “I’m neither of you;
Not the blinded one, on flight to reign,
Nor the indebted one, too tied to pain."
Nor does the kid ever dare to be
A product passed politically:
Ingrained in mind, in heart, and soul
A subordinate being in a bowl
That churns, and churns, and churns, and churns
While glutenous ******* more they yearn.
This ceaseless cycle leaves little choice
For the ill-fated screaming voice,
As a true language for them not made
Because demonic beings must place a shade
Over the stronger ones deprived
Appraisal for their stronger minds.
The kid, all this, can’t take to be
As what they see they wish not to see.
In this unbalanced Yin and Yang,
The kid’s perception hits a bang:
“The power lies within the one
Who mostly governs with a gun.
But, how can a human hurt their double,
When love and passion are lesser trouble?"
A fitting *** the kid cannot choose,
As in every win each *** will lose.
But slowly, as they come to be,
The kid, society directs to see
That to the right *** they must belong
As "genitalia proves feelings wrong."
This funny theory most credits Freud.
But by collective viewpoints the kid’s annoyed:
'No good is said, no good is done
For those who are all, but yet are none.'
Great gender points makes Butler, Judith,
While blind opponents seek to disprove her;
They ink 'she is wrong within her stance!'
That female unity will give rise to chance
To an inclusion of the female word,
And one that’s First...not second or third.
The opposite, still out to bend
The rules and laws, all to pretend
That the other *** does not exist
Because swollen egos must persist
In rule, in art, in build, and biz:
'Fields where opposites lack all wiz.'
The kid, in this silly world of theirs,
Looks at all these foolish heirs
Who bounce and shoot this gendered ball,
While the kid stands back and laughs at all.

Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-led "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem all native conspirators of ultimate treason.
As the State buries the dissident's piercing wits,
A treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
This wormlike betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."

You should hear Her speak of the time
When love had struck Her, left Her blind;
The intuition in Her breast
Was left ignored with just one request:
“Please, love with care (with no hate);
This may prepare you for your fate.”

Then, a One-Eyed-Monster dared to peep
At this starry-eyed Girl with a soul still asleep.
The Monster's nature, as it strove with pleasure,
Pleased Its infinite fervor, which nothing could measure,
As It Schemed, and found, and mostly destroyed
Her love-struck spirit that It yearned to employ.
These reckless hits made by this Daring Dart,
Un-mended the Girl from Rosebud to Heart.

Not believing all the Monster said,
The Girl sought the truth, but found it with dread.
Upon seeing this Monster's very bright colors,
She drowned in sorrow, but refused another
Hit by this Dart, as It still carelessly slaughters
Other Hearts, like Its future Daughter’s.  

And then came a time, much later in life,
When the Girl understood love’s unending strife.
Many One-Eyed-Monsters, She now bears in mind,
Aspire to love, but still cannot find
The passion They hunt for and ache to sway,
Because they zip Themselves up when love comes Their way.
Confusion They feel, and this does not die;
But, what can They see with only one eye?

These perilous passings on love’s sojourn
The Girl does not dwell on, nor does She mourn.
Instead, She has found new ways to see
Love’s ultimate beauty, unexpectedly:
A journey enGENDERED with Ladies of taste,
Where only Her own *** can love back without hate.

A state for Her, a State in need;
A Lady in good state, indeed?

She attempts to make Herself appear
To Us All, both far and near,
A beauty One in all Our eyes
While in Her own are only lies.

Her outer Self is a fraud;
Her inner One perfect and broad;
One much needed to enlighten
The weaker Ones whom She may frighten
With Her depth, Her sense, Her honesty,
But lacks our ideas of 'true beauty'.

The foolish Man, also conditioned,
Accepts this fallacy petitioned
That "A pretty Lady, a pretty sight,
Is the only kind to make a wife."

An object in its simplest sense,
She appears, made by the dense.
But in Her eyes, while wisdom fills,
Her shock enthralls, Her passion thrills.

And through it all She may plead
A message in much desperate need:
“Forget the glitz; it’s all a waste.
Forget the glamour; it’s all a state.”

Dear,

Parents. Siblings. Friends. Lovers:

Give you this.
Give you that.
You take ten
and I take that:
NOTHING!

My shoulder? Please!
And my home too?
Progress with ease
as I wish for you.

But a moment for ME,
oh but just one,
I’d like you to SEE
just what you have done;
Sorrow and pain,
my tongue will stutter,
but through my tears
my RAGE will flutter.
Though this may be the gist
of my anger in reign,
a WALL and my fist
returns...no gain.
When Austen, Kafka, Garcia-Marquez
instead hit the wall,
ALL ties are dead.

“YOU here for me,
but not I for you.”
Is all you can see...
All you can do...

Your ear I implore,
a little sympathy too;
FRUSTRATION galore,
to hell with you!

I lost my soul
long ago.
It did not know
where
to go.
It sought the truth
and still doesn't
know
how much
longer
it has to go.

To find itself,
how does it
begin
to see
the bright side
until
the end?
With colossal wings
a darkness reigns
while
brightness dies
from
deep within,

where

a

soul

exists

but 

can
not

sing!

From my lips
come hints of
sarcasm.
Sarcasm shielding
the truth
of me.

From my eyes
comes out
the truth.
The truth
about me.

But?  To what?  Degree.