You say that i don't do what you say,
you say that i don't care,
but what you don't see,
me crying in a suffocating pile of regret,
the fact that i am constantly at war,
in a war that most times takes my focus,
so sorry that i forgot one thing in a list of five,
the sound of a bottle pouring alchohol sounds like bliss to you,
but to me it sounds more like the night that she told me to **** myself,
maybe,
maybe i am a melodramatic fool,
but you cannot say,
my cousin getting beaten infront of me while i was to scared to say anything,
does not involve me,
and you saying that i don't care,
does not make me perfect,
it's more likely to be more amunition,
him,
coming at me with a taser,
you told me you weren't okay with it,
but you didn't try to stop him,
why,
why do you never stand up for me,
even after all the **** she did to me,
you react so much to me not doing my chores,
and everyone always tells me to relax,
sorry,
i'm sorry that you would rater drink wine,
And I'm sorry you'd rather smoke ***,
But for this Destiny I am not,
I am nothing but a suit of armor waiting for the next person,
Waiting for the next person to use me,
But as little children painted with the perfect life,
Stop to tap or bang or just admire,
I turn my head away,
Because I cannot feel guilt for something I'm not involved in,
But this armor is painted silver,
But underneath is a paper wrapped heart,
That has so many dents,
And so many craters,
That it looks like the moon,
Cascading over the water,
The water that I am drowning in,
Am I really the guilty one?

War by proxy,
the future of conflict
super powers clashing
on foreign soil
in battles fought by locals
divided into camps
pitted against their own
for differing convictions
not for the lack of reasons;
fuel to the fire added
by their recruiters
propaganda,
subterfuge,
subversion;
no need to worry about ordnance
and military hardware,
ammo and suplies
they will be provided
duly
by the sponsors;
the agenda is
to drown a patch of land in blood,
with an island built from bones
lonely in the middle,
just big enough for a g-man
to set foot upon,
tie the laces of his boot;
an then move on.
But what of all the residue?
Nothing goes to waste
all will be reused
blood to fuel
bones to amunition
surviving souls to generations of hate slaves

If you're elsewhere building an oasis
somewhere peaceful, someplace quiet,
watch your back and keep an eye
on the silent sky
there are birds of steel and wires
with their artificial brains
roaming, cruising, watching,
their senses and their talons
lent to their
puppeteers, mere employees
looking for a chance,
at that multikill promotion
fingers itching at the joystick...
but outside and back at home,
a prison cell of boredom
waits to chew them in slow motion
to the bombed and the bombing,
to the greedy and the mourning,
we don't call this life
hell is real
we're both prey and hunter
madness is contagious and haunting

There’s a bunch of thoughts floating around in my mind
And i don’t know how to attack them one at a time
So i open up my notebook and spit a quick rhyme
Which is a sign
That very much like you wine and dine
I’m unashamed and unafraid
I dont need a maid to have it made
I’ll build it myself
Just put two feet on the ground
And listen to the sound of my heart
Whicch is a drum
The rhythm speaks in tounges
And i want to comprehend it
But i cant so i just send it
Away to my love
Who knows i lost my mother
So she always tries to fulfill my wishes
Which is amunition
Just as tuition gets you a colleges degree
Can’t  you see
Its the memories of the darkness
That push us down
Bit without yhem we’d never have a place to stand up
Now i realize
That we all disguise ourselves
With the things that actually deprived us
From a life that to our demise
Will continue as we rise
To the sky

A look Un regard
I keep receiving Je recois

two in the 2 dans ma poitrine
chest

rapists violeurs

have invented ont invente

new ways de nouvelles facons

of being d'etne assassines
murdered

I hope they J'espere qu'ils ouvrent

open their leur

gun safes coffres d'amunition

or hang ou pende

Difficult
The way I see myself now
The way my life's changed
What some see as lonely
May be right
Maybe I need to be free

Free
To quote my own verses
Instead of taking film
From underneath someone
Else's tongue

Using hearts
As sleeves
Is my old fashion
May be I need a gun
So this amunition is aimed
At the right coffin
Instead of my own

The need
The drive
Where the hell
Do I come up
With those

When i've been
Feed through
My own antibacterial pasts
That I can't scrub off
This time

What happens when
Your life gets stuck?

It seems every time the telivision goes on
Another whack of human families die
No-matter if old or children and families
Getting too much  has a grown man cry

Most  watch it and carry on uninterested
Like it's some drama or a movie on T V
I go sit out on the porch wandering why
Does all this worldwide really have to be

My mind so full of daily stress as it is
And sitting to hopefully trying to relax
All the while they've the audacity to pray
To religions that never in life have paid tax

Does any think of how much this amunition
Would cost these countries in order to obtain
And all that they use without thinking once
Of little the children who never were to blame

Getting so tied of it all every day every night
And so many only taking time to as if pray
And behind everthing and all thats happening
Theres a religion driving it all for a better day

terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018

There were twelve sons and six daughters,
first curios learn, we live in the day
of fact checking our mind storms
when old brains reconnect using morphic
resonance once
and again acknowledged, as answers instants
in prayer, willing to say, okeh,
if the creeks don't rise,
we'll plant a garden, when the frog pond drys up.

An Ouranos cycle, is a weather in a world of winds,
no wu wu spiritual side exposed, I supposed

you might, using your may right, make something
of this
besides wars and portioning the gene pool.

Golden rule at the molecular scale,
tiny touch of power, surge across this cloud

containing my April collection bonnets,
and pillows you may dream on,
come what may, that man
who can plan a garden,
that man is good, to have in the pool,
feeling worthy of honor for his learning,

under less than optimum boomer parenting,
too painful to confess, my inner Boer,
warring for a reason to exist, if not as gods

how then
now when we all are authors of our faiths,
we all believe we know we learned some
hard but worth it, ever after, once, done

breath, breathe ing, sigh signing done,
another one bites the dust,
this is us and our mites we are breathing,

all of us, everywhere, all of the time,
no filters in this realm spacetimemind forming
effective material adjustment to the genome,

sowing seeds of kindness, not trampling
grapes of wrath, so aptly universal,

po po pitiful us, with our time spent thus,
dashing off
amunition am unit ion, ized dust in a sneeze.

We are free to unbelieve any lies, ever told.