Carrying an in-built GPS
Dancing to the suns direction

*** with pollen, honey
Its a way of life. You try

Jumping on a super fat slug
wiggling her body parts, laying

millions of little wonders
soaked in nectary hexagons.

That's my privilege
perversely pollinating

thousands and a queen mother
all in a days taking.

You watching. Cannot even dream
such luxury and for safekeeping

an arsenal exists on my reverse.
for those who question integrity.

Author Notes

Couldn't b said better.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The problem with a world reserve
     Currency is that one country benefits
          More because they are in “control” of
               The supply and interest rate of money.
                    This gives that country an exorbitant
                         Privilege and ability to abuse the power
                              Therefore
                         What we need is a neutral base layer of
                     Money that can serve as a reserve
               Asset for the world, not controllable
          By any group or country, open to all.
     Bitcoin is this completely neutral
Base layer available to the world

The intention of deeds need no intention at all. The drive, the force that powers the sun is the same force that powers the very actions that we take.
In all it's glory it asks for no reward, other than the privilege to be.

clock in,

and skyscrapers loom over us like gods,
her sweaty hair mixes in with my own,
these hard hands are on my cold cheeks
burning hollows with their brazing heat.

she will never rest inside my heart.
i cannot shell out that privilege.

rain is threatening to pour outside,
ashen like my eyes threatening to burst
in the moments before a mouth finds mine,
and i start making poetry out of her kisses.

the opening line:

she tells me, quietly, that we’re just having fun,
but this isn’t fun.
this is my life’s work:
i am already making poetry out of her kisses.

and the body verses:

i, the poet in the corner of the room,
making words out of scratched skin and late night tears.
her, the girl unlucky enough to meet me,
giving me my poetry wrapped in her caress.

this isn’t fun.
at least i am making poetry out of her kisses.

whatever song is playing is unknown to me,
as much a stranger as her kisses are,
and i don’t want to know either.

but this is how i get my poetry:
from her touch.

she winds down from the drinks,
and i wind down from the smoke.

the ending,
soft and impactful:

she kisses me and i kiss her,
both for very different reasons,
and i write the ending the moment we begin:
i will make poetry out of her kisses,
and she will forget my name,

clock out.

Oh! Dear troubled Soul

Dont you see
how the bud blossoms into a beautiful flower
how the river gives birth from mountains
how a small seed gives birth to a giant tree
how a small spark of fire destroys an entire forest
How every shade of your life is been created and developed

A mere human has no power to do any of these
Then why and how can you take the privilege
of taking others lives in your hands
by torturing and killing them.

Faith and religion was meant to build humanity
Not to be inhuman and develop insanity.

Please grow up!!

When I was a kid, and my family would complete puzzles
Together
I always wanted to be the one to put the last piece in
Alone
So I would steal it, then hide it
And forget where it was
Making sure no one had the privilege
Including me

What
A little
*******

Seeing her is like returning to a city where you used to live.
You loved that city and always will
There is something about it that will always feel like home
and you secretly hope you find that city again:
To embrace everything that brought you such bliss.
But when you find yourself facing her at last,
the guilt of your crimes returns.
When you dishonored something so beautiful.
You have lost the privilege to enjoy
the place which gave you nothing but hope
and revealed to you the love that can be found in the world.
Even if the city welcomes you back with the softest smile
You can not risk causing any more harm.
You do not trust yourself
around the only person you ever loved.

How much would Hemingway and Raymond Carver,
Bukowski
and Oscar Wilde
scoff at my sobriety?
"You gave in and gave up, at 28?"
The words I'd then write
for these old dead white guys
about wanting to get better
about trying to be sober
about working a program
C'mon man...

In my defense
they didn't have Oxy cottin
or Xanax
But
they also didn't have central air
or auto-correct

So for my old, white,
dead drunken heroes
Who most likely
wouldn't like me
I'll hold my white privilege close
to my heart
At my core I'll be angry with
women
I won't look to jesus
to beg for forgiveness
Most importantly
I'll hold onto the truth
that statistically
I'll end up drinking
myself to death
at 50

I have always been one to take shortcuts -
This might/must explain my love/hate relationship
With run on sentences.

A Clear and concise statement is best
And concise.
                And clear
                                  And also a statement.

The mighty must love.

My writing seems to have reoccurring things,
One of which is not the truth

That’s a true statement.

What am I hiding
In my (my mothers) hide-a-bed?
Insecurity?
Defeat?
Dreams?

I guess writing is an
Honest
Place for me to
Start.

“Walk the walk, talk the talk”
state another cliché and commemorate
the poem with the
reoccurring theme
of acknowledging
one,
That you are
writing a poem
and as per usual
two,
it’s about me.

Shimmering narcissism.
Golden aura of a fading golden era
Classified as a mental disease -
If writing can help keep my distance from
Facebook
And taking selfies….

Then I will risk being honest.

Living by the lake sure is great
And a full fridge is a ******* privilege
And moms aren’t half bad
Especially when they have
Never given up on their
Sputtering child.

Sputtering narcissism.
At the convoluted writing convention
I’m over in the self loathing self help section.

I want to tell one last lie
Before I start
Shooting straight , kick the habit and
Become an honesty “truther”

Its important what people think of my writing, and what they think of me.


Practicing self love is the key to surviving
Living @ home w/ your mom
Because I have always been one to take
Short cuts,
And drive long windy roads
Instead of sleeping,
Always reading/speaking –
working out words in my head
That I can soon write down  –forcing
More honesty out to the surface before its
Too late
To tell
What ends first – this poem or
This sentence.



Living @ home w/ my mom
Will play a vital role
in becoming a great writer.

It is what I want to be instead,
Into your heart
inside your head.

Oh, the privilege to share the intricate pulses of your mind
and the welcoming of your feel, your touch all too real.

and all I've been, you said
is another wound, torn
across your bed.

Oh, should it hurt more than this?
or is the shattered realization
a ****** expectation
no longer a fear
only a time
bomb.

The season has changed
Since I wrote a story of letters
On just how inspiring you are.

But it's been about two years
Since my balance first failed me
And left me breathless.

Suffocating has been an absolute privilege.

/TRUE CONFESSION.

Frozen by the recent cycle
Of all these current events,
I am still and silent
As I revert my mindset
Onto you.

Was it ever really a question
Of where my affection belonged?

Then why does the melody
Sound so wrong now?

/ART.

You look at how I meant to deceive you
And you admitted there
That I was your harmonious blacksmith.

We lied about how okay we were
And we acquainted ourselves
With similar thinking...

I never intended
For this to be so obvious.

/PEARL FISHER.

Our exteriors cracked open
And we pried out the pearls.

The world was built on the backs
Of those meaning to strike it rich.

The lottery is rigged,
And I was never in the loop.

Such a sad state to stare upon it,
As I'm splintered at my spine.

It's never clear where the path diverged
Until you fall off the plain of reason.

I mark my calendar with the date
That I first admitted my thoughts.

I couldn't convey
What I know only in feeling.

/UTOPIA.

Offered up here before me,
Like a sacrificial lamb
To personal salvation,
I must face the demons
I gave way to in the past.

The evils I should have learned from
Now look like philosophic musings
On illuminated manuscripts.

My conscience is void of peace,
And the stress is turning into a disease.

My nervousness exists
Alongside your game of chance,
And I'm not sure if it's a wager
I have the sanity to take.

Luck has never been on my side,
And I know how bad
I can **** this all up
At a moment's notice.

It's encoded in each strand
Of my DNA...

I'm not meant to survive this.

“What’s the harm?” they whisper,
“What’s the problem
in being everyone’s fantasy?”
“In having all of your friends
find your flesh attractive?”
“Having the pretty privilege
morph into the entitlement of others?”

As they claim my skin
and caress my bones.
Peeling pieces of my body
and making themselves at home.

Consent is implied
within the lines
of whatever bond we hold.
Friends, family, lovers.
What’s the harm in giving them
what they want,
what they demand they need.
In watching them eat you up
With a never ending greed.

“But you’re my fantasy”
as if I’m obligated
to the impressions of me
you’ve shoved down my throat.
Until I’m choking and sobbing
pleading you to relinquish your hold.

Your eyes leave imprints and bruises
as you salivate over a body
I don’t even see.
It was only 3rd grade.
Again, when merely rending
the damaged goods of a teen.
By the time I was an adult
it was the only way I was seen.

But age matters not,
when you were never perceived
as a human being,
simply a desire
for others to devour.

“What’s the harm in being a *** dream?”
They scream “we’re all friends here”
as they render my sobriety to shreds
Only to tell me that it’s all in my head.

Society taught me to turn a blind eye,
“what’s the harm?” It said with a sigh.
They drugged me with ignorance,
refuting my plea.

A passing inconvenience for you
Born of my own naïveté,
is a trauma memory
that I can never undo.

There isn’t a piece of me
you’ve not seen,
nothing left of myself
to discover.
You’ve rendered my own exploration
into nothing more than a detour.

You’ve taken every first
I could have claimed
and thought to beat a dog
was the equivalent of making it tame. 
So now I’m sobbing into a void
wondering why I was ever
a thing that you could destroy?

Some children will feel
There’s too many days in the school year
Some will think there isn’t enough
Some will be bored of the repetition and ease
Some will still be eager to learn
It is school
They are just kids
Learning slowly the mysteries of the day to day
Young people with little experience in life
As we once were
And in some way or another
Still are
We don’t have all the answers
In truth it’s all still a mystery
Despite our years of experience
And our piles of the day to day
And kids are just kids
As children have always been
As children should always
Be allowed to be
So let a few feel there’s too many days
Of study hall and home room and homework
Encourage them all to learn
And just as importantly
Encourage them just as much to laugh
Let them be bored of things that bore kids
Let them be children
Let them be kids
It is our privilege
It is our responsibility
To look after them
To keep them safe
To make sure they know
They are loved
But let no child at school
Have to think
Have to feel
Have to see
That there were too many guns
That there were too many bullets
That too much innocence blood was spilled
That the school year
Had too many deaths
Of too many friends
That lived too little
That were taken too soon
Because we failed to be responsible
That we took our privilege
As a community
As a world
For granted by turning a blind eye
And giving nothing but a moment of silence
And our thoughts and prayers
Without any action or resolve or steps
To make this last tragedy
The LAST tragedy
Any child had to live through
Had to survive
To witness bullets bought by greed
Bury the bodies of their classmates
If we watch this scene of tragedy
Play over and over again
And do nothing
NOTHING
To even try to stop the death of innocence
We ourselves in our complicity
Are just as much to blame
And just as guilty
As the hand that carried the gun
As the finger that pulled the trigger
As the politicians that took their bribes
The days of thinking it will never happen here
The days of the unthinkable being unthinkable
They are gone
They have been buried
With the bodies and the names
Of the children we have failed to save
The ones already gone today
And the ones that will be gone tomorrow
In the next senseless tragedy
Today is not soon enough
And tomorrow is always too late
Now is the time
And if not now
There will never be a day
We’re children are allowed to be kids
That don’t have to think
Don’t have to feel
Don’t have to see
That the school year
Had too many deaths

blood flow,
gun smoke,
untold,
untold,
untold.

one ghost amongst
an innumerable mass,
seething,
seething.

we're leasing a room.

You entered the mind
With the sinister intention
To kick out the happy thoughts
And abuse the space
Given to you as privilege
Now that you have taken it hostage
You have made it a place of slander
Deep wounds within
Cloaked from the world outside
You stealthily carry on the violence
A silent atrocity

We decided to drive.
I sat in the back because, you told me you were a good driver.
I sat in the back because I trusted you.
I let my body hover over the seat, shivered as the cold metallic handle graced my hands.
You told me, I didn’t need to.
I didn’t need to wear the seat belt because we were so, so close to our destination even though I had no idea what that was,
I didn’t put my seatbelt on because you told me not to.
And as the green lights turned to yellows and reds
We kept driving
All along the same road
The roads turned from single lanes to four; 5 lanes to one
And I kept looking out the window
The little girl in the back seat
Trusting people is a privilege.
I remember your hollowed voice echoing through my ears as you turned the volume up
How you tried fighting over the bass, hoping you’d get your message across
And we drove
We drove past trees and the ocean; across canyons and we even tried driving over the moon, we would have done it if we could.
And I remember trusting your hands
How they moved over the steering wheel so gracefully
My mother always told me to be relaxed and to trust the driver, they have your best intentions and anyways I never liked fighting
So I decided not to fight
And as the sun said it’s final goodbyes and the last layers of light was stripped away
And like painting over walls in a new house
The stars crept in, but eerily
Your hands did not glide over the steering wheel anymore.
Not graciously, at least.
I sat in the back, all alone
I repeated in my head the vows, the trust, the desperation
I decided to hum along to the music, the music to drum out your ramblings
We drove for so long.
And your hands did not feel safe anymore.
I wanted to say stop.
I wanted to cry out in all that is holy-
I wanted to put my safety belt on
I wanted my mother
I wanted it all to end
After all, I never liked driving, and my trust was barely holding on, it was caving into itself as the trees tried breaking our windows.
Your feet slowly, daringly hit the gas
You turned the music up so you couldn’t hear my shouts, here my deficit crying
Even though nothing floated out of my mouth
Nothing came out, only tears
Only wonders and what ifs
And nervous air
You gambled with the breaks, decided it was never worth stopping
I remember crying in the back seat.
We had driven so far.
I was told good girls are quiet
You said you wanted the best for me
And so you hit the gas
And over the moon we drove
Over the biggest canyon we went
The trees carried us on our journey
And the glass broke the chains of every memory and thought one has
The glass broke the seat belt.
The glass broke my screams.
The glass broke me.
The glass cut itself.
Once you fell next to me,
You finally stopped
I never liked to fight.
I never liked to yell.
I never liked to be quiet either.
I never liked to scream.
But I always hated driving.

Waking up to see your smiling face
Once was a privilege I held
Your brown eyes
That came from your father
Though his were blue
I learned to welcome your gaze
Not to shy away
That unshaven face of yours
How I miss it so
Feeling it brush against my cheek
Making me giggle and squeak
Noses pressed together
I'd look up at you
Smiling and blushing
About what we both knew

There are preparations being made for another funeral in my hometown and I am late again for a fitting,
I pass by a familiar old man on the street corner, still stockpiling ****** and ammunition and I think it is beautiful that he still has hope,
So I give him the last of my money,
$1.60, the price of a rematch never won, not nearly enough to pay for the guilt of privilege but the best I could do nonetheless,

In sickness I watched the faith of my drunken friends run down their faces among half full glasses of red wine and bummed cigarettes, and it is this same divine tragedy that runs feedback loops through my deluded cortex every night between bouts of drowning clarity,
'There may be hope for you yet,' whispers the phantom poet of my fever dreams,
As I notch another eventual demise into my belt,
While the white washed pages of bloodied history sneer back at me, asking,
'What are you gonna do about it, punk?'
I don't know how to answer that question

Somewhere out West my shadow firewalks with the best of the fallen heroes, and I begin to understand that feeling I heard sung about in my youth
I never could've imagined it would feel this bad
Of all the things we do to find people who feel like us, this is by far the worst

i've given you what i have
i'll give you what is left
all of me, the remnants
of what they've left behind;
my everything is yours,
even the parts i love
would look better in your eyes
than they ever did in mine;
i am giving you permission
to break my heart
at the end of this,
call me cynical, i know i am
but i can't help but imagine
the privilege it would be
to sit there, surrounded by a pile
of all my shattered parts,
knowing they were broken
by you.
-a.c.b

That's what you offer me
You are a true gem so special and beautiful even in darkness you elicit light!
In me you will find a friend that is always reliable
A friendship that doesn't fade away with time is what i offer
Hurt and betrayal you will never suffer
Loyalty is my trademark
Royalty is your birthright and it's a privilege to be associated with u
For you are the sweetest sound in paradise
Even in heaven your name is a song that the angels and the celestial beings will always sing out loud.
My love for you will never wane
As a candle the light and fire of my passion will never dim
For eternity and beyond it will wax stronger and stronger until time stops running
Even then my love for you still won't grow cold
An incandescent love is what i breathe for you
It's fire will keep burning

Today on my walk, I met a man
With ripped up jeans and a mangled hand
He muttered some words, I gave him some change
A lingering smell, the face of the deranged
I can't help but imagine my feet had trod
There, but for the grace of god.

Back at my home, the television news
Ran the story of a fireman's crew
They saved the kittens but lost the kids
A life torn apart, property up for bids
I can't help but imagine my feet had trod
There, but for the grace of god.

Then a poor man peddling drug in Detroit
Skilled handling money, with a gun, adroit
On his way back home, the police opened fire
He will never see justice, just a cremation pyre
I can't help but imagine my feet had trod
There, but for the grace of god.

Privilege, luck, name what you will
The father I have who can shoulder the bill
Undeserving, ungrateful, I was born into boon
The ebb/flow of life, due nothing but the moon
Were life a fair game I'd be the one who'd trod
There, but alas, there is no god.

Uneven
Without substance, void of faith
Unresolved
Seeking facts among the fiction
Untapped
For the price seems too steep
Unfavored
Privilege lost that was never had
This heart is blackstone, hollow within
Day to day, sinking further down
Useless
Fake a smile of sincerity,
For all the world's a stage, and we are but merely actors
Or whatever Shakespeare meant.
Reveal yourself, masked man
Uncover the fear you bring
In a cloak of anxiety and dread
For these lay dormant yet dominant within this vessel
From this side of the mirror, it is all you will ever see

Doing what your told
Trying to fit a mold
Stay young, look pretty
but your hearts getting cold.

Losing energy in dedication
Gym everyday, fit generation
Didn't like yourself before?
Couldn't fit in? Self medication.

They don't look when you pass by
Sit alone and wonder why?
Your not getting enough attention?
Forget your worries go get high.

Your focus is in the wrong place
People are dying for a taste
Of your life. That's not right?
They run an infinite race.

You were born with a privilege
Raised in the suburbs not a village
Your belly was full every meal
Yet your life's some sort of major suffrage?

You hate your own existence
Its obvious how very distant
The comparison between yours and theirs
Oh now you see? But you're resistant.

Trying to justify your thinking
Clean bottled water you're drinking
Never helped them out before.
You'll turn a blind eye again, blinking.

Sitting alone on this seat.

Floating back to Singapore . . .

What I would give to always be by your side.

Dwelling ~

Yearn for your warm, kind, ever thoughtful words, or maybe just for the sound of your voice;

Something to let me know you are near;

Something to let me know you are safe.

Like when you ask me why do I always gaze into your eyes,

In retrospect, I realise;

When I look at your eyes, it feels like a privilege every single time,

It's almost as if, I am chanced to have a peak into your beautiful soul;

Genuine,

Warm,

Compassionate,

Respectful of all things and beings,

Loving,

Discerning,

Virtuous,

Confident,

Just a few of the characteristics I have felt whenever I look into your eyes;

It never fails to evoke an innate sense of appreciation for you, within me;

I often, find myself reminded, like an ever-recurring echo deep in my heart, of the saying:

"The eyes are the windows of the soul".

I love you and I always want to be with you;

I wish to keep you happy,

safe,

in good health,

to be both, your other-half,

and your best friend,

to understand your needs,

emotions;

to regard them,

respect them,  

to nurture them;

Like you have been doing for me.

I also need you to know;

I appreciate you,

I love you,

I care for you,

I want to always be there for you;

You are the epitome of my being;

Once again,

My kismet.

- Kes Long.

Maturity is when you finally realize
Boredom is a privilege

I fell in love with an angel who kept the devil underneath their tongue.
Who would preach about how love is sacred but would lie to their mother.
And I'm on my knees but the pads of these shaky fingers that once got the privilege to grace your sinful flesh will never dare to pray again.
No one will listen for me to confess
about my deal with the devil who used my heart as collateral but never once gave it back.
Exercise me, my skin is burning
I beg and plead for the voices to stop
Bless me father, for I haven't stopped drinking.
Satan was an angel once and he couldn't be saved so why did I think you were different?

Please wait
Help is on the way
cereal box bursting plastic seams
full to the brim
Help is on the way
too many high-sodium high-carbs      
everything that goes up must come down
everything gripped white-palmed hits this polished rock bottom
Help is on the way
is the backpack-bearing bearded man with dirt slathered across flip-flop bare feet not accepted in addition to cash?
See store for details.
I am afraid he will ask me
if I can spare some change but
I have to keep quarters for laundry
pods 25% off
wish I could give him deliverance, tell him
Help is on the way
Please wait
wish I could be a Pharmacists Who Care(s)
I just Pick Up, Go.
Did he fail to follow the instructions
on life
on pin-pad reverberates high-pitched privilege
I am one of the guilty ones
I look at him as if he were already expired
stuff my guilt in the bagging area
please keep all items in the bagging area
I want to leave this one out.
Where is my expiration date
am I only Good Thru a Beauty Guarantee am I only Good Thru 40% percent of my body am I only Good Thru what is seen on tv?
System processing
Please wait
Thank you for shopping

I was wired the wrong way
As a toddler my friends swallowed household chemicals
and their parents called poison control
but I swallowed lighter fluid when no one was looking
and ever since, I've been waiting for someone to strike a match on me
or I’ll strike one on them
My lover just smiles at me when the neighbors house burns down
I melt for him just like all their favorite possessions
I waved at them every day from my driveway
They thought I was saying "hello"
but I was warning them to check their smoke detectors
Never liked the color of their blinds anyway, I did them a favor
My heart is a cushion-cut diamond
I can't think of anything worse than being regular
Rather be the end of the world and maybe I will be

The night I told him I loved him and puked blood all over
his car door but he said he loved me too
sorry again
I'm not-so-living proof
men loves flames, boys love cheap sparklers
I carved our names into a wet bench in the forest
at 11:00PM and I got tangled in the tennis court net after
He loves untying knots in my heart anyway
I have a gun because other people use their heart as a weapon
Not all of us have that privilege
His parents raised a good one, I almost feel bad when it's
"Love me" this and "hold me" that
but he knows I’d give him the sun if he wanted it
He talks, I walk

My privilege of feeling like a total loser. A waste of space. A soul crushing, liberating privilege. Once you realize you are up to no good, that you will amount to nothing in life, you can't help but come into terms with your nothingness. A little before other people who have a lot to lose.

Excuse me ,
But I have a few things to tell you.

1. If you ever touch her again,
I will personally insure that you won't have hands to touch anything EVER AGAIN.

2. If you ever remind her of what you did to her,
I will make sure you will not have a tongue to speak with.
I will cut out the very cords that allowed you to talk.

3. If you ever look at her, your own sister lustfully ever again,
I will make sure you do not have eyes to watch her grow up.
___________________
Th­ough I may not have the privilege to see her anymore, I will always love her.
I will always be there for her,
and I will protect her from people like you.
People like you who value
***
rather than
family
and
insest
I hope you read this.
Head my words.
If anything happens to her,
I will find you'
and i don't think
you want that.
I hope you take this seriously,
because you are sick enough,
and I will pay you back,
worse than anyone ever has
you will never sexually abuse her ever again.
Got it?
Sincerely,
Zach

I love
--the candle--
the wick the fire
the lick of my hair with
the spit that holds it together
and I've been a radio never ending
counting the days of holding it-- forever
with hope
as wide as the ocean and I expand
as a blank state to be violated
tone deaf to my own cries

i am willful apart from my sore feet
weak and unresponsive
this frame upholds these acidic reactions
through the manifestation of the ejection
of my solemn protest

a cosmical request they ask for
drinking for a ****** later
***** splashes on a bathroom floor
privilege is a blessing not guaranteed
dancing on gravestones restless
upon poetic licenses and with composure aligned
towards the lines of our sky.

and I beg
I beg to be someone more exciting
I beg to accept my lies.

I inspected the dirt road in front of me
I depend on it
I need it to reach my destination
I adventured with six colleagues
I and them try to reach the top.

One by one each fly was swatted
by their own misunderstanding of pain,
My curiosity on pain tolerance baffled me
The earth’s lap around the sun was coming to an end
but I must finish first

I began to scamper away from fear.
The higher I traveled
the closer I felt to the him,
the privilege of mystery was on my favor
because I knew not where I was going
but the path seemed to whisper,
“Trust me, he is right this way”

As I caught my breath
I looked around
and saw emptiness,
but felt full inside.
I hiked slowly over the a mountain I believed was it
then gradually the last hill appeared to my eyes

The final sprint was done
I sat next to a perfect shaped rock
and I began to talk to him
his light began to vanish,
but before he completely disappeared
before his last photon hit the retina of my eye
it made a detour
not into my brain
but into my soul
I visioned the future
the future he has for me
and now
I know what I need to do.

Enfranchise worry and tears
go for it, those open floodgates
bottle and market it
sweeten with corn syrup
bittersweet amalgamation
lead poisoned wall
tankard of stern lost eyes
so swollen
cannot drip

Soon faucet will rust
and stagnant death
you have witnessed
will sanctify
any maddened reason why

Resistance to smile
through it
though you know you were blessed
to have loved each and every
Your dearly departed

Leaky toxic brew
Such as this
does no honor

To a life
an ongoing confer of privilege
You still own

So let it be
begin to smile

Again

that awkward laugh
pushed through an explosion

Tears


beauty you recognize
through the pain
You are permitted
this indulgent elixir

I dress myself alone and wanting.
In clothes that won't fit.
Thread-bare silk inlaid with vexing jewels.
Gathered from a higher realm.
Polished daily.
That gleam is fading along with me seized in its reflection.
I see a waif cursed with vision beyond common sight.
Wandering streets of ermine and sickly jade.
Unable to buy he seeks to pry value and sentimentality free from mundanity.
His device is crude and nearly broken.
The wrong tool for the job.
Those around fail to notice by their own choosing
I won't join Matthew just yet...
He died wanting for bread, begging me timidly to share a portion of his fear. His hands shook, clammy and fretful throughout his final ordeal. I bid him farewell and set him free from hunger. Succor never came from strangers, but it came from me for him on that day. That borrowed blade, Silence of song, embedded itself in his life and lingered there until it stood alone in that vacuous chamber. Breath vacated his gaunt body as if fleeing capture. I left him lying there gazing above for enlightenment that would never come, but was always there to see.

Long did we find ourselves partners in plight.
Carrying both silence and song with us.
We heard sweet lyrics sang by angels.
While silence filled our home, full of empty hands.
Behind fortress walls, we were protected from foreign invasion.
Yet unprotected were we all from misfortune.
Parents offered to war as sacrifices, crying out for justice.
They found only death, offered only tragedy.
Instead of the justice they promised to give.
They returned dishonored, dressed in shame and covered in woe.
Houses set upon higher ground.
Came before us bearing fruits of privilege.
Readily shed from branches grown unchecked.
Had it been geniune, it wouldn't of stopped at charity.
It would have continued onward, brave and unguarded against concerns of cost.
Homes and hearts provided keep minds and souls tethered much longer.
Than false pretenses and half-hearted succor.
If I grow up I will seek allegiance with the blades of silence.
For it was one of its members that came down to our level.
And offered us a sliver of hope cradled within an expression of generosity.
Nothing in return, only silence. Said the hooded person wearing silver myths upon his breast.
Silence of song was given to me by way of gentle force.
Though timid and wavering, my hands were persuaded to open of their own accord.
His warmth was a key, intrusive and welcomed, it opened my trust and left us both in awe.
Before he could vanish from our lives, a song began to play.
It was song that united the kingdom, kept solidarity from fraying at the fringes.
Those that wore Ermine and jade stopped to listen, held by hands of power and position.
We couldn't discern its meaning or intention, little did we know that our feelings of exclusion were actually gifts of freedom...
By the time our tongues were ready to question, he was set in motion away from us toward the sounds and crowds of oblivious listeners.
Flashes of steel flickered in front of captivated visages locked in controlled reveries.
Delusions of a place indistinguishable from paradise, shattered upon contact with reality.
Blood was set loose onto the streets, though the affected were grateful to be rid of it.
For it was pain that freed them from song.
It was House Horgrave that day that made attempt upon our sovereignty.
Their songs are composed in sin yet are performed in innocence.
The blades of silence seek an end to these malicious performances.