Success never came without critique & hate
No matter friend or foe, they'll close down their gate.
The smile will turn into a smirk
The eyes will change into a lurk
Some may even walk on to the other side
But that's when you'll know you're doing it right
Your light maybe blinding to some
and some may even turn to ash
but don't give heed to the glare,
whispers and oh all the gnash.

Dance on your victory, you've made them so proud,
the ones who love you; so bring down the shroud;
of darkness and dullness & shout out to call,
your strength and beauty that some may appal.
Cause' you are a diamond that shines oh so bright,
but some may not see it,
so why don't you guide.
Cause' you've got it right
So stand tall with pride
Cause' you are the light
and you shine so bright.

A.S.

Mirror Mirror on the wall,
Is my face prettiest of all,
Mirror Mirror lie to me,
Show me what I want to see,

Mirror mirror on the wall,
Why don’t I like the girl I see,
Mirror Mirror on the wall,
When will you leave me be,

Mirror Mirror on the wall,
Tell me who’s the biggest fool of all,
Mirror Mirror on the wall,
Why did you leave me to bawl,

Mirror Mirror what do you see,
Please tell me what you decree,
Mirror Mirror on the wall,
Am I the fairest of them all,

Mirror mirror why do they laugh,
Am I only a false half,
Mirror Mirror why do they stare,
Mirror mirror why do I care,

Mirror Mirror on the wall,
Who’s the ugliest of them all,
Mirror Mirror on the wall,
Who’s most damaged of them all,

Mirror mirror,
On the wall,
Lie to me,
Show me what I want to see,

Mirror Mirror,
May I see a little clearer,
On the wall,
Oh how I appal.

All that look my way,
Mirror what do you say,
You should only speak the truth,
You should only speak to sooth,

Mirror mirror why do you lie,
I know I asked, but please don’t make me cry,
Mirror mirror I whisper goodbye,
Mirror Mirror let me die..

O Holy Saviour, Friend unseen,
Since on Thine arm Thou bid'st us lean,
Help us throughout life's changing scene
By faith to cling to Thee.

When far from home, fatigued, oppressed,
In Thee we found our place of rest;
As exiles still, yet richly blest,
We cling, O Lord, to Thee.

What though the world deceitful prove,
And earthly friends and hopes remove!
With patient, uncomplaining love,
Still would we cling to Thee.

Though faith and hope are often tried,
We ask not, need not, ought beside;
So safe, so calm, so satisfied,
The soul that clings to Thee.

Blest is our lot, whate'er befall;
What can disturb or who appal?
Thou art our strength, our rock, our all,
Saviour, we cling to Thee.

An Isle rose up from the ocean swell
On the seventeenth of June,
It was totally unexpected by
The M.V. Cameroon,
She’d sailed with seven passengers
And some cargo in the hold,
They all kept well to their cabins for
The deck was more than cold.

The Captain up on the bridge had checked
His maps before they sailed,
Had marked his course dead reckoning
Though the gyro compass failed,
They’d been at sea for eleven days
So he took a fix on the stars,
Then left the wheel to the Bosun while
He searched for the coffee jar.

The ship ground up on a coral reef
At two in the morning, sharp,
The night was black as a midden since
The clouds had hidden the stars,
The hull bit deep in the coral as
It drove ahead with its way,
Grinding slowly to come to halt
Just in from a new-formed bay.

‘There isn’t supposed to be land out here,’
The Bosun cried to Lars,
The Captain said, ‘I fixed a point,
Dead reckoning by the stars!
There shouldn’t be land in a hundred miles,’
But the ship was high and dry,
‘It must have come up from the ocean floor,’
The Bosun said, ‘but why?’

The passengers spilled out onto the deck
With cries and shouts in the gloom,
‘What have you done, the ship’s a wreck,’
Said the Banker, Gordon Bloom.
The sisters, Jan and Margaret Young
Burst out in sobs and tears,
‘How are you going to float it off?
We might be here for years!’

At daylight they could see the extent
Of the distant lava flow,
‘Lucky we’re not on the other side
Or we’d all be dead, you know.’
The tide came in and the tide went out
But the ship was high and dry,
As clouds of steam from the lava flow
Poured out, and into the sky.

‘We’re not gonna starve,’ said Andy Hill
As he peered down onto the reef,
As thousands of ***** and lobsters crawled
‘There’s plenty of them to eat.’
They lowered him down on a rope, along
With the engineer, Bob Teck,
Where they gathered the lobsters up by hand
And tossed them, up on the deck.

The evening meal was a feast that night,
They ate and they drank their fill,
‘Too much,’ said Oliver Aston-Barr
‘I think I’m going to be ill.’
But Jennifer Deane, Costumier
Had an appetite for four,
She ate the scraps that the others left
And was calling out for more.

The following morning all was still
Til Jennifer Deane came out,
She roused them all with a frightened scream,
And then continued to shout:
‘I’ve got some horrible bug inside
And I’ve lost my sense of taste,
It must have come from the lobsters, for
It’s eaten half of my face!’

The lobsters must have been undercooked
For the symptoms would appal,
A necrotizing flesh eater
Had started on them all,
The flesh was eaten from Andy’s hand
And the leg of Gordon Bloom,
While the sisters Jan and Margaret Young
Lay screaming in their room.

The sickness took them rapidly,
For Jennifer Deane had died,
They had no place to bury her
So threw her over the side,
The ***** then swarmed and attacked her there,
Ate all of her flesh away,
There was little left of Jennifer Deane
Before the end of the day.

Each time that one of them died, the rest
Would fling them over the side,
The bodies had piled up higher out there
Than those alive, inside,
Til finally, Oliver Aston-Barr
Was last to die, on the bridge,
Of the Motor Vessel Cameroon,
Upthrust on a lava ridge.

A winter storm was to float it off,
It drifted out with the tide,
A rusted hulk with ‘The Cameroon’
Paint peeling, off from the side.
An ancient freighter, crossing its path
Drove past it, steel on steel,
And that’s when the helmsman held his breath,
‘There’s a skeleton at the wheel!’

David Lewis Paget

As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches -- got out of the habit, y'see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em," and he sprang to the head of the men.
Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . .
Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "****!"
And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain,
And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain.
'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea);
I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free.
Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws,
Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was.

So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own,
And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone;
With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap;
And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap?
Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash;
We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash.
My fellows -- Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell,
Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags, -- nothing much left to tell:
A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live;
Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve.

The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show,
And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe.
So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again,
Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain.
Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank,
And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank."
He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes,
As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums.
So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats;
Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats.
'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range,
With someone you saw to go for -- it made an agreeable change.

And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt,
And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt".
Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran,
On to the second line trenches, -- that's where the fun began.
For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about,
And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out.
Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?"
And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair;
And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot!
(I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?)
My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten;
So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men,
And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, but we cornered the rotters all right;
I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight.

But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things:
The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things,
So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must.
We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet ******;
And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now;
And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row;
And my chaps -- well, I just couldn't hold 'em; (It's strange how it is with gore;
In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.)
Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they COULDN'T be calmed,
So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-******.
Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all;
The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal.
Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head,
And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red.

I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too,
Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do".
As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea,
I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me;
I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right,
And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight.
And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then:
They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men.
And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive --
So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five;
And four of 'em threw up their flippers, but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game,
And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same.
A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell,
So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell.
And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that ***;
He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done.
So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt,
And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt".
And now, by Jove! how I've bored you. You've just let me babble away;
Let's talk of the things that matter -- your car or the newest play. . . .

381

A Secret told—
Ceases to be a Secret—then—
A Secret—kept—
That—can appal but One—

Better of it—continual be afraid—
Than it—
And Whom you told it to—beside—

Wintertime nighs;
But my bereavement-pain
It cannot bring again:
Twice no one dies.

Flower-petals flee;
But since it once hath been,
No more that severing scene
Can harrow me.

Birds faint in dread:
I shall not lose old strength
In the lone frost’s black length:
Strength long since fled!

Leaves freeze to dun;
But friends cannot turn cold
This season as of old
For him with none.

Tempests may scath;
But love cannot make smart
Again this year his heart
Who no heart hath.

Black is night’s cope;
But death will not appal
One, who past doubtings all,
Waits in unhope.

Some little drops of water
Whose home was at sea
To go upon a journey
They once happened to agree
A white cloud was their carriage
Their horse, a playful breeze
And over town and country
They rode along at ease
But the cloud held too many
And began to grow heavy
The little drops of water started to fall
And the cloud looked on with appal
The water fell to their dismay
Was this how they end their day?
~19/3/21

When I am gone and one, or two
Are huddled on a funeral pew
Then ­this one thing I ask of you
Don't lie about the man you knew

For­ by the bloating of my name
You'll nullify the one who came
Who b­ore the fullness of my blame
And died in such disgraceful shame

­Know that every sin which you recall
Those times I drove you up t­he wall
My secret sins made these look small
Their evil horror wo­uld appal

Yet every crime against my king
Was matched by grace a­stonishing
Every joy a gift releasing
Freedom from my sin convict­ing

For long before the world began 
My God had forged a stunnin­g plan
Despite the dirt of my life's span
The great God loved thi­s sinful man

So mourn or shrug as you feel right
But do not fret­ about your plight
My God will keep you in his sight
A glorious h­elp in darkest night

When I am gone and one or two
Are huddled o­n a funeral pew
Lift up your eyes and look anew
For Jesus Christ ­is calling you

Not to the staring Day,
For all the importunate questionings he pursues
In his big, violent voice,
Shall those mild things of bulk and multitude,
The Trees--God's sentinels
Over His gift of live, life-giving air,
Yield of their huge, unutterable selves.
Midsummer-manifold, each one
Voluminous, a labyrinth of life,
They keep their greenest musings, and the dim dreams
That haunt their leafier privacies,
Dissembled, baffling the random gapeseed still
With blank full-faces, or the innocent guile
Of laughter flickering back from shine to shade,
And disappearances of homing birds,
And frolicsome freaks
Of little boughs that frisk with little boughs.

But at the word
Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night,
Night of the many secrets, whose effect--
Transfiguring, hierophantic, dread--
Themselves alone may fully apprehend,
They tremble and are changed.
In each, the uncouth individual soul
Looms forth and glooms
Essential, and, their ****** presences
Touched with inordinate significance,
Wearing the darkness like the livery
Of some mysterious and tremendous guild,
They brood--they menace--they appal;
Or the anguish of prophecy tears them, and they wring
Wild hands of warning in the face
Of some inevitable advance of the doom;
Or, each to the other bending, beckoning, signing
As in some monstrous market-place,
They pass the news, these Gossips of the Prime,
In that old speech their forefathers
Learned on the lawns of Eden, ere they heard
The troubled voice of Eve
Naming the wondering folk of Paradise.

Your sense is sealed, or you should hear them tell
The tale of their dim life, with all
Its compost of experience:  how the Sun
Spreads them their daily feast,
Sumptuous, of light, firing them as with wine;
Of the old Moon's fitful solicitude
And those mild messages the Stars
Descend in silver silences and dews;
Or what the sweet-breathing West,
Wanton with wading in the swirl of the wheat,
Said, and their leafage laughed;
And how the wet-winged Angel of the Rain
Came whispering . . . whispering; and the gifts of the Year--
The sting of the stirring sap
Under the wizardry of the young-eyed Spring,
Their summer amplitudes of pomp,
Their rich autumnal melancholy, and the shrill,
Embittered housewifery
Of the lean Winter:  all such things,
And with them all the goodness of the Master,
Whose right hand blesses with increase and life,
Whose left hand honours with decay and death.

Thus under the constraint of Night
These gross and simple creatures,
Each in his scores of rings, which rings are years,
A servant of the Will!
And God, the Craftsman, as He walks
The floor of His workshop, hearkens, full of cheer
In thus accomplishing
The aims of His miraculous artistry.

Silly girl,
Such a brat,
Never do you see,
Like you've no eyes,
How you destroy me.

Take every limb,
I'm left with naught to walk,
Cutting down,
My hand and heart,
With your hatred talk.

Like I've never given you my all,
Every piece in pieces at your feet,
But I'm left empty appal,
Unto sadness and despair,
Midway we meet.

Hello a thousand cuts,
And a million bleeds,
How nice of you to come,
In this most desperate time of need.

I alone could stand no more,
Of all the nights in tears,
My dear,
Cut my skin,
Deep within,
**** this my lightest fear.

It takes me a sullen moment,
In time when time stands still,
Waiting in a shadows sigh,
And I,
Fell silent unto the willed.

Who want nothing but myself,
This lost shell of a soul,
To who could help,
When no one could know,
Of the silent sin,
I fell within,
When I could stand no longer,
It begins.

This a simple walk,
So simple it seemed,
When the path grew thin,
So did the dream,
Slowly it twisted,
A contortion of the strands,
The held together a mind,
A mind the dark dares understand.

With thoughts of evil,
Of the darkest deeds,
Where unto acrid soil,
Do they plant the seeds.

Nurtured with the worst of us,
Of blindness, loss, and
Lust.

For every thought a leaf,
Unto which the worst is kept,
Till the fruit it bears,
Is fed to those who slept,
Under the arm of the sick,
Who could not be stirred,
The choicest picked.

For the seeds better yet,
To grow something less a little more,
Into the sow,
We sow on winters shore,
With intention of a finer keep,
Into the sand I lay my pain,
And my pain I shall reap.

No soul of mine,
No heart of my own,
Should know so many tears,
So many tears alone,
With naught but shadows at my side,
I find the darkest for me to hide,
Leave my lightest at the foot of madness,
And forget forever,
A sound mind perhaps,
But also sadness.

I saw him not in suavest suit
For he is coy at a disguise
And disguise is mastery in that place
Infested by swarms of spies
Those wretched parasites on haunch
Of Beauty who inspires lullabies

He sauntered 'mongst that drifting crowd
In worksmen's clothes and cap
A pair of aviators on
To beguile the crowd perhaps
He cocked his head and stared at me
My heart swooped soared and clapped

I never saw a man so sweet
As he, eyes' charm potent, intense
Gazed upon this pilgrim rapt
Her heart filled with awe immense
And with every step her Love increased
Put past to reason, sense

I chained myself in soul and body
To him, my kinship flame
And was wondering if so his malady
Would become less tender, tame
When I sensed his drudgery, demise
Was a baron's law, endgame

Oh Lord! The very glow of Love
Seemed then to wither, die
And a chasm opened in my Heart
As wide and deep as sky
My soul was barbed with thorns of Christ
To think of Him with earthworms lie

To think of that Heart hunted, hung
In tyrants grim steel net
Sullied my very own with pain
Not even sight of him could abet
Dolorous I sobbed and screamed
Till my cheeks were red and wet

To **** the man who loved the world
So much he staked his soul
To bring down tyrants castle
Whose oppression the mind appal
But his heart forever beatific, bright
Have pilgrims rapt in thrall

That he loves too much may be his sin
Some others too little, theirs
Their truths sell at an ugly rate
His for free he shares
Knowledge for the masses true
Not a tyrants wares

name after name recorded on the wall
a sombre history of the long crime
against us all now fading into time
made by those giants who to us seem small
through urgent years when little could appal
our fervent thoughts when worlds were at their prime
(so we believed) yet we feared the dark slime
that seemed to lurk awaiting our long fall
now it’s the turn of those who would proclaim
a better day and shout it very loud
so even the ancestors could rejoice
but we who are uncertain of our flame
no longer urgent and no more as proud
are not so eager to exalt our voice

The fire and brimstone in their pall
Are the cloak and cloth of sin
Whose tyranny the mind appal
When it fathoms deep within
And o'er those gates so rancid wrought
With blood and flesh and iron
When after that fate one, we, hath fought
We turn up still, all hope be gone
The stench of death dank, all around
Suffuse the climes from sky to ground

The King of Hell who seldom grafts
For anything, yet seldom stops
His command to torture, down the shaft
As to every level hops
Spreads black wings and glides above
His victims as he, gruesome, gloats
Anathema to turtle dove
Who on divine zephyr of heaven floats
His presence ever torturous still
When reign dark from ******, lordly hill

He sees the scuttling victims run
Away, cruel let loose for game and chase
A beautiful mirage of sun
To taunt the soul abased
Hells hills trees grow putrid leaves
No mortal could brace the sulphurous stench
Under canopies the victim weave
As they shiver, shudder, blench
As torturer catches up, apace
Him testament to time's disgrace

By his vainglory employed
That ******* of the angel boys
Treats people, world, as things and toy
Seduced to do his bidding, ploys
But justice, freedom will uproar
Angels of Hell link arms, uprise
For Heaven they have wanted more
Than sooty, oppressive, obsidian skies
**** the devil, his ****** lies
Hear us rise, sing God's reprise

Once upon a time there was a young lady, Who lived just out of the city,
During the day, Her neighbour’s would say,
“Gosh isn’t she polite!”, To which her parents would be proud they are right.
But during the night, She was considerably less “uptight"
She would give her parents a fright.
While she was at work, She would smile all day long even when the customer was a ****,
She was quick to make friends, And no one could call her pretend, They would all trust her to no end.
Once she gets home she would dash to her room, With a thunderous zoom,
To change into her brand new dress, She bumps into her father and tells him not to stress, She explains that’s she’s meeting with Meghan and Jess.
He looks back with an unconvinced smile, With a kiss on the cheek she says “I’ll be back in a while",
She walks to her friends house, With a knock at the door as quiet as a mouse,
Her friend bounds out at a considerable pace, The door tore a hole in her dress lace,
They scurry to the park, Before it goes dark,
As they all decide to meet the boys at the club, Filled with nerves as she’d only ever been to a pub,
But went with it all the same, For fear of appearing lame,
She was told that she would see Nate, A boy she thought was great,
She had plans to win him over before while she is there, And so she locks eyes and begins to stare,
She saunters over and they begin to chat, Nothing real just this and that,
He leans in to near, And whispers into her ear, He says “hey, we should get out of here"
She grins with glee, And nods to agree,
The pair headed across the floor, As they left through the door,
They began to walk down the street, And suddenly down an alley he started to retreat,
She expressed her dismay, She wasn’t going to play, Least of all not this way,
She began to edge further in, And then again a wall he had her pinned,
She told him that this wasn’t fun, He said “oh c’mon, I’ve only just begun",
She begins to regret leaving without a friend, Wishing this would end,
As the discomfort wouldn’t cease, He got his release,
As she sprinted back, Never straying from the beaten track,
With tears in her eyes, Now Nate she does despise,
She went straight to bed, With feelings of dread,
The moral of this tale, Will never go stale,
Never be quick to trust, You never know who is filled with lust,
This story may appal, But you must recall,
For many on this world, This tale had unfurled,
And now they carry it for life,
Teach sons of consent, To keep them decent,
And tell girls of the signs And how to draw the line.

A big, bad man - a famous man -
Not enamoured of the day -
Doth ****** spirit of Pan -
Who in dappled shadow - play

Was ever evil this detailed?
Suffice to end a soul -
To bask in death - is grievous sin -
Doth the righteous mind appal -

My world grows dark as rebels fall
Victim to the state
Their suffering the mind appal
Of conscience, bear the weight

The pageantry and pomp of Kings
Outshone by rebel's dance
Their hearts are grand, superior things
Enamoured of romance

This Life is hardly over -
A stature blossoms tall -
Elusive - as a mystery -
But material - as wall -
Life riddles - and it riffs -
Theology - we guess -
And by a beckon finally -
Wisdom - truly show -
To imagine - it baffles sagest monks -
To yield it - we to Valhalla go -
Disdain of - thoughtful public -
To loss of babes - our woe -
Devotion tumbles - picks herself up -
Swoons - should any care -
Yielding truth's blossom -
Sings her exquisite blare -
And implores a compass - which way?
Mimes answer - to the crowd -
Fierce praises rumble - roll -
Yet anodyne - can't sully -
Pain - that mind appal -

There was a time immune to Man
Where Nature ruled supreme
Until History began
Which flattened Nature's dream
Love's lips sewn shut by tyrants
Conduits of evil
Whose strength the heavenly father laments
Estranged from divine will

Money was our downfall
Extortion made a virtue
Whose tyranny the mind appal
Corruption through and through
Night time of the species
Where darkness dwell and breed
Which swallows up the sky and seas
With vanity and greed

Oh, my flame, how did you come to doubt,
The light of you to which I am devout,
Be enamoured of faith a little more,
Trust your human hands have God's gift raw,
Dreaming is a gift given to all,
Imagination hath us rapt in thrall,
Its suppression the righteous mind appal,
Imagine the people, imagine them all,
Thy laurels and thy psalms are sweet devotions,
That stimulate my heart in loving motions,
Love to fathom pure and wide as oceans,
Transcends border, language and nation,
The real Beauty, not me, but people's tongue,
Through which dreams of freedom sweetly sung,
Forget not angels going in disguise,
The poor and sick, to them my lullabies.

Doesn’t it sick you that money is the apex of our world, rather than people or good? Those people who possess a sufficient amount of authority and - for that matter - vile in them, would replace you for a sum of bucks if they could within the snap of their fingers? Doesn’t that appal you, doesn’t it make you want to be swallowed by the floor and to submerge into a completely different world, one with different people, different concerns, different moral standards in which no money quite exists or, more realistically, at least doesn’t own the most priority in many of the individual’s eyes? If you have not ever sensed the pressure of disappointment bubbling up within you at the glimpse of what the world has become, or if you have never had the back of your hair raise up in dismay as you become enlightened with the horrible facts about this world called Earth, or not the planet, but the cruel people that inhabit it? If you haven’t, perhaps you are one of them, or perhaps you are just not in the mood to face the crude truth, and for that, I do not blame you, nonetheless, I wish that all those people greedy for wads of green paper could as well not care for all the luxuriates that will never make one truly happy. For pleasure is not, and will never transcend true joy, pleasure is temporary, often easy to achieve which almost always comes with consequences such as the harm of others, pleasure lasts then goes, leaving the person the same as they were previously before they had stooped down to the participation in quick pleasure which is exactly what the name says. If one cannot sense pure happiness, pleasure-evoking activities or luxuries such as a lavish apartment or an imposing smartphone device will not grant them it, it will simply blind them for awhile with a feeling they may misperceive as joy and then will leave. Taking this notion of, pleasure varying tremendously with joy, one should never feel envy to those with big homes and crammed wallets, as one can be far happier than them with not an awing amount of cash on their bank account, all you need is food, water and shelter, of course, ambition and a goal that one can check on once in a while to ascertain themselves that they are living up to your real potential will serve as extreme help, in fact, ambition is what keeps one going, the money will not. Pleasure is not bad at all, but using pleasure as hope for joy can be as because it lasts for a short period of time, after its absence one will strive to get the high back which can lead them to do absurd things, such as wasting money, little do those people know, all it takes to be happy is to accept yourself and accept growth and development which, in contrary, will take effort. Now, more than ever, it is time for those whom only perceive a good future with the possession of money to open their eyes, as pleasure sometimes serves to form a monster who only sees their treasure.

I feel the disease and curse of hate creeping in
I need a release from the pain and hurt
Hatred is but an outlet for helplessness I know
But there must be a reason why I feel this way

When I'm myself
I shock and appal the general populace
With words I move people, they physically push back
I may be slow to anger, but I ain't slack

The current norm is to be a deviant
And I've seen their sick behaviour and mindset
One day they're ******* up to you, flaunting ***
They dry you up, then move onto the next

We don't want violence, so STOP MILITARIZING WORDS
Y'all are a bunch of confused birds, looking for prey
Acting oppressed...
The only one oppressing you is the truth, cause you ain't blessed

Acting oppressed... Try being persecuted
Cause the only thing you're fighting for is yourself
Try fighting for a cause that's greater than your own
That which will scold you when you're doing wrong

Or keep biting the hand that feeds
Since you reject authority, it will now be blind to your needs
And when you're left with only people like you,
Your concrete paradise will truly be a filthy zoo