"intoned" poems
Artificial means and memes the fingers perusing naturally formed hide and go seek
Chic creatures wrought from nanoparticles based on modeled consciousness neural networks
A handsome hivemind of bee;s building trees from cds ...intersynth polygons attracted
to stack platonic forms emanation waves alpha beta delta gamma omega 1 , 2 ,3
this multiversal layering from micro to macro of matter animated by its intoned
hertz pulsations and the interferrence pattern of the changing relationship due to the amount, frequency, force, temperature , texture , text messages, timing , geometry , subharmonics and overtones, a jewel net . syncronistic synergetic, synaptical sparkles.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
I am resilient today
I've yet to right a wrong,
Write poem,
Sight a note,
Convey in pros,
Hope for hope,
Join the stream,
Bathe in logos,
Come close to host the thoughts of all;
Boast? I don't think so.
What's not achieved Isn't real?
Really?
I cannot convey the souls that reside this body,
This mind,
Chimed,
From which end of the chimera?
The poem intoned,
Vocal aspects of the crone.
Cyclically saying,
I am resilient.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 12:28 AM UTC
A poem based on Genesis 3:19
For dust you are; and unto dust you shall return.
A stack of dirt, neatly covered and withdrawn.
A hole, open and measured to conform to the box.
Mourners praying, intoning sacred, helpful words.
The priest makes the sign of the cross, voice strong.
The ritual is over, the people are invited to depart.
The hole, not quite empty anymore, is alone.
The workers fill it with the dirt, as they will.
The silence of the cemetery, the lull of natures' whispers
Plastic flowers placed on monuments of cold stone.
In the sweat of your face, until returned to the ground,
you will step in determination towards the coming end.
For every man and every woman, it will be the same.
Rich or poor, strong or weak, the grave is no different.
Repeated daily in every land upon this blue globe,
holy messages of comfort and solace are intoned.
A lone bird, sitting casually upon an old tombstone.
It fixes glances at the grass, perhaps seeking a meal?
It does not realize the shadows loitered in the ground.
Nor would it care, even if it could somehow be aware.
Nature is its own master of every creature, like the bird.
For dust you are; and unto dust you shall return.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:48 AM UTC
When in the pasture
They don't offend;
We avert disaster,
When they're penned.
But that crusted crap
Is everywhere;
If not aware,
We step right in.
We'll scrape the pooh
To no avail,
The smell's
Stuck to our shoes.
We can't quell
The **** we're in.
There's one steaming
On my walk,
Leading to my door.
Leave your keys
When you leave,
That patty leads
To court.
The Internet's beset
With bullish threats;
Hard to miss
The patties here;
Our lives and much
That we hold dear,
Is shared and smeared
For all to read,
Milking us of privacy;
An abattoir,
It's piracy.
It's utterly insane.
They entice us,
Then enlist us,
Like leading
Cash cows
Down the lane;
Then tap
For one drop more.
Friends may offer
Cow pies
With an aromaticfluence;
They pressure you to choose:
Step right or left,
Then smear you with
Their cocksure ********
What enemy
Could do less?
Shopped pixelled patties
Are reprehensible,
Making one
So susceptible:
You *****
Then starve,
Then lose your hair
Until one day
You disappear.
We get caught up
In the flash,
Of all the stars
And fast cash,
But they have patties
Underfoot,
They slip and slide,
Get clean,
Then smirk.
We can smell'em
On those jerks.
There's a patty
At your boyfriend's place;
You're deep in it
If you're late.
There's a patty
At your girlfriend's place,
And you're deep in it
If she's late.
Some patties
Are so well disguised
In the colours
Of lover's eyes.
Intoned in lover's lures.
But step in it,
They call you *****
Some patties
Are good
At getting you high,
But one mis-step,
And you may die.
There's hidden patties
Lying within,
Crusted beneath
Veneered skin:
They waft with doubt,
Fear and longing;
Side-step that mass
At all costs.
Don't crack the surface.
You're better than
You think.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
I sense the touch of God
when I pray my rosary.
His presence strong in
the chanting of the words.
I know that He is here
by the peace that I feel.
Words intoned so ancient,
beautiful and serene.
Comforting me in
ways I can not explain.
Through Mary to Jesus,
my salvation ensured.
God provides solace
to those who seek Him.
In the echoes of despair
He brings me assurance
of blessings and hope
which He restores.
So many moments
lost in useless ventures.
So many times I
tried to be supreme.
Only with God do I
triumph in my dreams.
Heavenly Lord, Father,
thank you for your words.
I pray my rosary in joy,
loving every holy word.
May God, the Holy Trinity
continue to be with me.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC
How stand thee tall, judgemental,now? How dost thou choose thy bread?
When all around thee, finger pointers, leer and shake their head.
Have you found a sphere of comfort here, whilst perched upon thy throne?
Has it ever really bothered you, that esconced, you're quite alone?
You live with dire restrictions, imposed so harshly by the Court
And as socially, classed an isolate, it affects you more than ought.
Though recompensed so generously you feel the pressure bound
Because each and every day your judgement rendered, must be sound.
Each utterance decreed by you must hold good Law intoned
Or the Brotherhood Knights Templar shall see you thoroughly dethroned.
A Pillar of Society, though one who stands forlorn
Is the Judge who'se daily client's words are negatively sworn.
The Judge who waits expectantly for that ray of light to shine
But is constantly bombarded by the tarnished shade of crime.
The loneliness is tangible and corrosive wear extreme
For the man who sits in judgement and who'se wisdom must be seen.
Marshalg
Pukehana
13 January 2014
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
Manacled the hands
Which intertwine with one another now,
Hands that come to grip with issues
Locked within the soul, somehow.
Manacled, the hands that hold her
Manacled in blood and bone,
Hold the baby’s head so gently
Veined and scarred with love intoned.
Hands of strength that strike the anvil
Shape the shoe to fit the hoof
Hold the stallion’s head commanding
Strong control to stay aloof.
Hands that wield the sword of vengeance
Hands that feed the wood to fire,
Work the field with ox and plough
Stroke her body to desire.
Veinous hands, so strong and calloused
Locked within his every day,
Hands that clap to merry music
Hands that to the piper pay.
Hunter hands to snare the rabbit
Catch the carp in yonder lake,
Pen the words of love to paper
Knead the dough of bread to bake.
Quiet hands that rest in evening
Sitting by the fireside,
Listening to the snoring hounds
Which on the mat, asleep, reside.
Manacled, these hands, he ponders
Locked within the ways of sin,
Reminiscent recollection
…Quiet smile on whiskered chin.
Fingers cooled in fresh spring water
Feel the rays of rising sun,
Stride across the purple heather
These hands, a goodly day begun.
Marshalg
FOXGLOVE, Taranaki.
4.20am 17 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
Outside a church a girl with permanent
mine deep scratches on her face
silently sells me matches-I light a match
and through the round church window
I see a crucifix propping Gods eye open-
the earth his spinning eye-the cross and eye
bridging time-humanity's leap into a new religious
paradigm; cross and earth meet, man's divine
awareness is complete.That night I light two
matches beneath a full moon and place my
hand beneath the flames and see God the
hooded falcon and Jesus his falcon-they cannot
see the fire in the eyes of each other.
Dreams were my bird of prey as i slept-
I was drawn to a wilderness where Christ
wept nails and howled beneath a full moon.
The wind caressed my wings and his hair-
he looked into my eyes and intoned a prayer
and rain-stones came down onto the plains
and bounced off my bedroom window pane
waking me-in the mirror I could still see the
figure of Christ preserved within my eyes.
I watched the TV and Jesus witnessed history
in documentaries. Jesus returned in a dream,
watched the earth in two streams and altered
its history- ended poverty and war, then drank
from the waters. After waking, this was replayed
in my eyes- Jesus they would vaguely recognize
and in return he didn't accept his reflection
in the waters of the streams.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 4:18 AM UTC
I. the breathing of human nature
her poetry weaves a chimera
through ontario maples,
ghostlike songs intoned in late november breath:
*i don't really want to be a pretty girl... *
whispers of woodsmoke fall from sky
(sky, pink as cochineal, pink as avarice
sky, blue as bruises, as jazz, as tropical waters)
she steps from the fog and ash into the beckoning trees,
seduced by leaves,
an autumn saturnalia of honey, flame, amber,
nectar, pistil, anther.
she is cupola and chalice,
budding fuchsia and iron cherry--
but she writes and breathes
as if something more than a woman
who knows all the names for the ocean
stirs and struts inside her.
II. the statue and sobriquet
piano wires melt into statues,
heat steals rusty bottle caps
and bends them eerily into muses.
butterflies perch astutely on their shoulders,
violet, violent, a mosaic of shredded lilies and shellac,
paris in flames, flowering tea-houses,
the mariana trench, a thicket of morning glory.
nature sculpted this metaphysical tribute to her
for all that she has done, for all that her bent fingernails
and snow-covered lips have given
to inspire solstice and equinox--
in the night-songs of the crickets,
crystal bells and rustic chirps,
she was lauded.
III. declaration
she feels the songs in her eyelashes
and writes of wine and palest bone,
fragments of bashful moon,
roots her fingernails into the tarnished canadian willows
and finds her way through magnolia clouds and sea-spray sky;
after all, she can soar.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
Two folded sheets of paper
were hidden in his stovepipe hat.
He mouthed the phrases with his lips
on the platform where they sat.
The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The stench of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.
A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.
Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed aged and somber.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet yonder.
There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the dead.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.
He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.
That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
I was then a child of five,
Now I am old and Grey.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
The beauty of made beds?
Irony on the verge of beauty cope?
Settling bared for a beauty, in the name of sleep?
A question of simplicity, for beauty to requite a hope?
Soul, a passion has come, to ye...
Let with solemn have, and the actual
Powers that since, singing the soul of worth into view be
The rage of decency, to earn the better of a future who...
Pride is a laboring voice, with a moment to same notion
Needfulness with a bared truth, eats from the hand of beauty
Sound to solace, and the devil to see, is the world's sin
Comparing *** with a riddance's dance, is only lucre
How or the risks of hatred...
Know love like a challenge of sincerity, that hasn't
Adage and cares intoned with a house sulking, is terror's lead?
When avid is a searching heed, it is a voice that wasn't...
Save honor the time, and you will see...
A choice of significance to a wish, larger than life atoned
With the reasons of virtue, that began with a seeming victory
Of life in the grasp of love, that has sat a champion of a soul, one...
A chance meeting with something besides beauty...?
Sour and in deference to liberty, the question of earned kind
Is for the senses, of witnessing the grace it took, each
Idea of life continuing to be, the reality we made, for a heart and a mind...
Jul 8, 2024
Jul 8, 2024 at 3:01 AM UTC
I – the girl you observe
guilty pleasure
marching through molten black
torch ignited
orbiting phantasms in the aphotic
burning within
corruption incinerated upon ingestion
tucked behind your frame
nestling ear
lip grazing canal
zest to soliloquy
vivacious saccharine tone
ruminating in the lilt of your tongue
resting in gum scoop and jawbone (mandible) reserve
adroit pivot
humbled gaze
locked
exteroception engaged
hard swallow
pearls scooped catatonic
atop lingering breast ascension
prudent olfaction volatile
cribriform annihilation
ginger – basil - brine - ruminate
etch of lace
sailplaning flesh topographic
aureate sunlight cresting soma
intoned morning – essence of miasma
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
My name is Chris
I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;
'We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee'
poet.
So to you I said 'I'm ill'
'Care to spill?' she hisses.
'Yes' I said
My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
'Prince and King Godber'
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded dwarf on a throne.
She responds;
simple, ****** surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain't slept...
Small **** Na **** but let's not go into it tonight,
naked.
In her dreams he's laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn't know till it was too late.
The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire
Pain. Passion, Nighttime.
'Do what thou Wilt' says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.
I did, I do, I do - boom boom. no one laughs.
She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don't you just come dance outside
stroke away those cobwebs in your hair
so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to **** myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.
Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.
Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming **** this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half ******
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that's saying something.
Come and bathe yourself in my immortal **** she bleats
'look it up in your encyclopedia of shames'
you'll just find a picture of a woman.
It's intoned meaning
It's poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.
screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum naked.
Puke. Puke, ***** on the doormat.
Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna **** us.
Already has.
**** it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don't go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
In the shallow capacity of a dream
Whose nightmare is compulsive
Whose argument is a melancholy
Of intoned attuned contradictions
Of that which is arguably another
With an express made more sober
By an emphasis of obscure fragmentation’s
That effects, in ambiguous contradictions
Mists that conjure in artificial reluctance
An unwrapping pretense that grows heavy in the palm
Making sleeping bruises weep
Those that have placed themselves
By treaty or inheritance upon a soul
And embalm a presence
On announcement of resurrection
For those who awake
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 3:31 PM UTC
You wear your presence lightly,
you politely undermine it
for the folks who'd find it fright'ning
in the normal daily grind
You are jocular and flighty
wear a self-effacing grace
although your shoulders might be mighty
were they not so undermined
We met at a rehearsal
for an amateur dramatic act
to shrink the universal
to a comfortable size
They took a work of genius
the timeless peerless grandeur
and they whittled it to meaninglessness -
There I caught your eye.
"I hear you need a drummer!"
you intoned in toffee baritone
and sad, diluted Shakespeare
did evaporate tout suite
"We're gigging in the summer!"
I replied in my delight and then
I knew I'd found a friend
who might just help me keep the beat.
I found you were an artist
of broken, brittle beauty
who believed an artists' duty
was to challenge and defy
Who had washed up in the genteel
artists' village of Kircudbright
where the art is safe and snooty,
boats and trees and sunny sky
But your canvas is elastic
is electric and eclectic
as you drastically cast an angry
eye across it all
Any prettiness is sitting
on a nauseous unwellness
where the skeleton of Elvis
boogies by a butcher's stall
Well we found some fellow feeling
in our mutual defiance
casting darts at art and science
and amusing just ourselves
Made some music, sank some bevvies
wrote a book, got raging drunk
but what we managed withered, shrunk
by what we planned and simply shelved.
Well it seems that I've been hoping
that our business was unfinished
that our plans were undiminished
by the passing of the years
That some catalyst would manifest
and shake us into action
dissipate the dull distraction
of the daily hopes and fears.
But it seems that you are leaving
that your talent, brightly blazing
and the fact that you're amazing
has been missed by this wee town
Well I undersand it, ******
but I'll miss you now, my brother
and the tumbled jumbled colour
that you spun from Solway brown.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
I agreed in my youth
to spend
my time
in a monastery
speaking only once
each ten years
Ten years, and my Master
summoned me
and I said: "My bed is hard"
I had spoken
and I was back on my next ten
at the end of which I intoned:
"The food here is horrid"
I was on my next cycle
of ten years
and at the end of the third decade
I declared: "I quit!"
And my revered Master proclaimed:
*"Go, you loser.
All you have done is to whinge."*
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 8:32 AM UTC
The Lost Letter of Love-
The thunder of the busy street makes love to the vicious voices that plague my mind. Reminisce of a forgotten love still shower my inner most thoughts. Passion that once overwhelmed my life is now my reason for exhaust. The shimmers that once lit my ambition and drive now hang lightless, darker than the deepest secret. Yet the frequency of lost desire still induces the most intoxicating substance. Arms grow weary caressing forgotten times, the tears that once grew a river, are now dry beds of torment. The beautiful dawn plays in coalition with the residuals of a distant song. “Goodbye my lover” plays in harmony with the neglect of reality. Not facing demons yet displaying affection to them. Indulging in virtues once restricted by political propaganda. I am her vicious vendetta, her thoughtlessness, her absence. I lay on a bed of needles enjoying the aguish, suffering in satisfaction. The destructive thought of deserving such a decisive decision allows my mind to become a rag of lost emotion, wiping tears from the concaved steps that once bread a whirlwind of radical love. A canvas stained recklessness paints a picture of a destined solitude. No regret orchestrates a symphony of percussions, streaming beautiful sound through the hills of total regret. Awake becomes second nature, slumber slumbers with the lack of motivation to ignite the calm. Insomnia hums in a melody so righteous that the religion becomes the man. A hollow shell of broken ambition sway in the wind of self desire. The cries of the night become intoned with the cries of truth. Instinct maps the course of self-withered illusion, illuminating the “why us” cause. A foundation of happiness holds the weight of a pessimistic engagement. While optimistic scavengers prey on the depths of endless souls. Disappointment rectifies all signatures of a so-called love. Remembering a once forgotten future claims its stakes as the eternal right. The moon holds desperate for the fortune of the unfortunate son. Unsettled disputes, take a toll on broken bodies. Broken wills dance in the limelight ignoring the forgotten pain, a laugh of retribution becomes one with inexplicit content. While saying “I love you” becomes that of explicit context, searching for the meaning between the lines. The lost letter of love shapes like the clouds in the sky only resembling something it never can be.
RICHARD ITSKOVICH
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
Some weeping in the silt of river grass,
A speckled black amphibian intoned
And lured blueberry girl with yearning groan,
She understood the plea as clear as glass.
Beneath the living mud she scooped him out,
The burping toad was cradled in her palm
And sank within a meditative calm
As she observed him rapt as one devout.
He humbly sat with wide-eyed child in blues
Who held him close and thought she knew his core
Unfolding from the water to the shore
Enclosing all the world in murky hues.
Her mother called her name from hollow home
But still she peered beneath his witch's eyes
And, twinned, the souls did glimpse each others' guise.
She sympathized, so buried him in loam
And ran, a spot of blue on open heath
To where her parents cooked a windswept feast;
Though she might grow, she'd not forget the beast
Who lived above the water, and beneath.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
The pool glistened
in wet moonlight,
wearing a haze
like in an ***** eater's vision.
the deep blue waters
that lay still
has something to tell
one would think,
he was glad to see
such clear water,
that reminded him
something vague
"Answer my questions"
from the pool intoned a voice
"before stepping in to this water,
your ablution can wait a bit,
would you like to taste
this water, and find out
its origin, if you could, then step in"
"Why not" he replied with confidence,
"I am enamored by this sight,
such loveliness makes one
forget pain of every kind
now, let me know it a little better"
when his tongue touched
the water just once, a flash
struck, remembrance came
rushing towards him like
the curse of tsunami waves,
her pearly tears it were, collected
on its own, for many years.
he sat by the pool, guilt ridden
torn apart by grief, cruel vultures,
till the moment his eyes fully dried,
he was let out from the house of pain.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
Baruch ata adonai elohainu melech ha-olam she-hakol nee-yah bidvaro
Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe through whose word all things are called into being.
God called, God Formed, God made--the three levels of man Soul, Spirit and body.
The prayer
From heart to heart
the words intoned
The spirit bridges
bears fast the soul
Awakens the moment
Grasps God's hand and cries
That deliverance fills
The healing consumes
That whole to whole
all bodies bound
Three in one
the spirits sound
The Soul true
The spirit awakened
The body whole
It is this O' God
That I seek and pray
Thy will be done
and done thy will.
Let hands guided
thoughts embraced
Hearts true
ways pure
Fill and gather
awaken and fulfill
My Star to shine
her brightest hew
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Apr 3, 2011
Apr 3, 2011 at 4:25 PM UTC
Etching a legacy
In things harder than stone
A brittle and frail reminder
To sieve the soul from the bone
Uttering the wrong word
Can bring a man certain death
With his mortality in question
Like shriveling baby's breath
He stamps out his detractors
With sharp swords, and a sharper tongue
His history intoned by the fall of night
On the edge of a future, forever unsung
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
The voice inside me is never heard
And it doesn't matter how loud it is
Even though I find this very weird
I have never told a living soul about this .
The voice inside me has a frequency
That's measured in some silent decibel
No matter how acute the emergency
No one ever hears a silent bell .
The voice inside me never sleeps at night
It rings in my ears and never stops
Even in my dreams I have to deal with it
Sad that I'll never hear when the pin drops .
The voice inside of me is a vindictive *****
She doesn't care if I deserve some peace
Penetrating my soul like a surgeon's stitch
And disturbing my inner man with ease .
The voice inside of me is a perpetual arrow
It stays in motion and never slows down
Intoned mostly to my pain and sorrow
My voice is a storm that'll never be known .
The voice inside of me is a quiet storm
That will probably never ever be heard
But lives underground like an earthworm
That threads the earth's soil with its head .
The voice inside of me is my late mother's
A voice that continues to bless and inspire
A voice of wisdom I share with my brothers
A voice of a great woman to whom I aspire .
#IvanBrooksPoetry
twitter @ivanclappers
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Stumbling around Ikea together
For fun on a rainy day, road trip
Admiring things yet to have
Can openers and dish racks
Aisles and aisles of flatware
Fitz and the Tantrums emerges from the ceiling speakers
One of my favorites
I start to sing quietly to myself
As we careen around the displays
I catch you humming to the tune as well
And something just rung in my heart
As the radio intoned
"You were just the right kind,
Yeah, you are more than just a dream"
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
Psychiatry sat America on the couch
And said Tell me about yourself.
America was referred to by the World Caucus
Who had to stage an intervention
Because they feared for America
America was getting out of control.
Staying out late at night in other countries.
Getting drunk on oil.
People warned, All this oil you like will lead to fire
And burn your chest.
Being told to leave and refusing to do so,
Saying This isn’t colonialism.
This is nation-building
Finally getting kicked out and told never to come back.
Throwing Democratic and Republican Parties alike into a mess.
The world caucus was worried
So they referred them to psychiatry.
America tried to explain itself.
Tried to justify
Saying, I stand for freedom
Psychiatry replied, Maybe it is better to sit down.
America continued
I said in my birth certificate that all men are created equal.
Psychiatry answered
Frowning,
Yes but not blacks
Or women,
Or Native Americans
Or even white men without land.
So that all men, was really all men who fit a certain profile.
What men did you actually mean?
America stammered.
But we changed!
Psychiatry scolded
You needed to have the most awful fight
That nearly destroyed yourself
Killed many of your relatives.
Before you could see those of a darker skin as equal
And even today it is so bad it is called America’s original sin.
But that is neither here nor there.
Continue.
America then waved its hands
Started rocking back and forth
And intoned.
I fought in the War to End all Wars.
Then after that in the most modern war
Then in the Cold War
Then the War on Terrorism
And I never received a piece of land from any of them.
Psychiatry replied in a stern tone- You were not supposed to.
You can’t congratulate yourself on an action you should not have done anyway.
The world applauds your sacrifice.
Now what you are doing is not so much sacrifice
But compulsive behavior.
Because you have been at war so long
You forgot how to make peace.
Be honest, you are not at peace with yourself
Because you cannot fight everyone you have a disagreement with.
And saying this is nation-building
Was the same as calling the Trail of Tears relocation.
Slave-owners Mistaken Founding Fathers
The Civil War The War between the States
And religious discrimination- the rightful exercise of war power.
Don’t you see that the relabeling you have done to yourself
You have exported to the world.
But the world will not put up with it.
So what are you going to do.
America said, I might need a follow-up session.
Psychiatry said, Good.
© 12 minutes ago
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC