"rightness" poems
Now I ask you to join me
Now you celebrate
Not being me. Not being you
Only Us for the great
UN
load!
DIS
arm!
EN
large!
OUT
side!
Some steps I will take
Be my guest
Pull your anchor
Out of the lake
We're
In the room
In the building
In the crowded city
In the country with thousands of cities
The country shares the continent with an enemy nation
The two rivals are carried round and round by the Earth's endless rotation
The Earth obeys the master’s magnetic line, burning since uncountable clock time
The sun is blind to his insignificance too, ignoring billions of other star mates, it can’t see through
Immeasurable it seems, magnifying! All of them such tiny little parts in one of Miss Milky’s arms
Some light years away there they are: Pinwheel, Cartwheel, Black Eye, Andromeda and Cigar
Unmeasurable it seems, humongous! All of them such a fading little part of the cosmos
There you are
Floating from a distance
Feel the empty ground
Drink from the fountain of existence
Still blind to insignificance?
Still convinced about the rightness of imposed beliefs?
Still judging others’ defects according to our pretentious and vain mind?
Still punching away the different, protecting the mold?
Still reinforcing illusory antagonism and insignia?
Still seeing only two sides?
Still holding to the pride?
Still
In the ******* room
Am I? Are you?
Let's try it again
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
There's no health benefits
to fasting: still.
Your body responds
in some paleo-way;
calcium leaks from bones
to balance lost ones
escaping during the ***
Always this homeostasis
while peeing. A setpoint.
There are those who fast
because that is what's left
to them, a prisoner in cell,
on the street, sitting in cubicles
feeling rightness with the same
wrong skin as e's fellow mate.
E does the daily pet cheats
too, until e's tired of it all,
until e wishes that there WAS
a great fallen Leader
to blame, or a giant green Tank
to stand against rice's grain
while holding defiant plastic
shopping bags.
When even violence
has been taken away:
still. We believe in peaceful
God and fast, fast or set ourselves on fire
because the concrete doesn't burn.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC
The road was long and rough
It was a passageway of words
A parade of letters and prose
The touch of invisible pleasure
I moulted like a snake in season
I dreamt on a cruiser of reign as we
opened my pandora box in the cave
The road was smooth and right
It was a third eye paradise of seers
A mire of misery and blowing wind
The tears flew like fireflies on heat
I met the shrinks of souls in salt bed
I waved the rain as it washed my sins
On that sight of the pandora box
The road of wrongness and rightness
It was an unfolded augury of life
An awakened sleeper roared in dreams
The days when I touched the skies
I took the broken house and mended
I saw the clouds as bright as crimson
Inside the box when I met my twin
The road of love, lust, love, longness
It was when the ember coal was wild
A blaze of soul collision and resonance
The days when doubt taunted in mazes
I wrested my mind and the heart knew
I tested the precipice and intuition led
Inside the unconditional pandora box
The road where I hid and felt alive
It was a paradise of shining trees
A place where our loneliness merged
The safest heaven on barren lands
I saw my warrior and he shielded
I sat as he ran away with fear and pride
On that very opened pandora box
The road of unforgotten forever
It was a triangulation of continents
An immersion of difference and indifference
The open table of a scarce connective mess
I shed my naive bed and hardened
I shut the wild untwisted world
On that very inevitable pandora
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
My pupils scatter and drag.
I dream and eat the round, brown beads
In fitful sleep, my tongue pale and sallow.
This consciousness will not float.
The lids clatter shut like a kettle drum cooker,
A thing alive inside, more or less.
There is an echo,
Scuttle, and a cough. Strangers in the cellar.
There is no rightness to this, only sacrilege.
The unjust man chatters in my skull.
"Go home, go home!", I cry.
The sense of it all withers with the passing of the years.
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
A visit to the library,
And returning I opened the book
I’d waited for a long impatient month.
Knowing it to be brim full of inspirational words,
I had only to read a few paragraphs
When it came to me,
When there was this moment
Poets call epiphany.
Into another place, beyond the printed page, mysteriously I slipped. I think it’s where your creative spirit lives and thrives, a place your flowing thoughts reside. There, the energy of your spirit flashes in the dark, and there exists the archetypes of all your inward eye brings forth. There the marked surfaces carry the chemerical accident of objects placed and pressed, and there the passage of your sewing hand’s rich rightness of intuition guides. In tandem they touch me to the quick; they scare and scar me. And why? – I sense in them this vigor; a potency no less, strength so wholly absent from my declining store of sad objects and false fashionings.
And all that careful reasoning
I'd so variously composed,
badly articulated,
tiresomely presented
became then as nothing,
nothing against the truth
of what you make
and what I know you are.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
When I look in the mirror,
I dont see what you see.
To me it feels like the whole world is targeting me!
Despite all the pain and hardships I seen,
It has changed what I have inside of me.
I envy all the bad things,
My reflection is starting to scare me
Why won't it stop?
The voices inside just won't leave!
I regret looking in the mirror,
That's bouncing back at me.
The voices are telling me wrong
Hiding the rightness behind those hidden walls
When I look in the mirror,
The same thing happens to me
I reach back to the past,
Where I shouldn't be
It hurts,
Cuz' I don't want to relive my sad memories
I try to be strong for others
But I'm dying on the inside
When I look in the mirror,
I don't see what you see
To me it feels like the whole world is targeting me
Despite all the pain and hardships I seen
It WILL NOT change what I have inside of me!
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
The soft petal-like wisps of romance mixed with a hushed musical score.
It swelled with recognition.
The dawning feeling was of rightness.
And the place to fit was exacting.
The rush of emotions surged.
And they broke with the excited gasps of the breath of realization.
I laughed.
The thought of longing to find someone.
Someone to love lurked in my mind.
It wasn’t a dream.
It was now!
Life has brought me to this point and I laughed.
The sheer joy of attainment was here.
I laughed with happiness because it was my joy.
It was my time.
cc2008
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 2:50 PM UTC
Frosted lips met rusted leaves,
Surprising both parties at its rightness,
Between the freezing and the warm,
Between the snap and the crunch,
Between Autumn and Holly.
Hearts met in the mix of November,
A tossed salad of a month where both coexist,
They met with eyes of brown and blue,
And to their shock and everything else managed to meet too,
Between Autumn and Holly.
As the eons went by,
They muddled through ice ages, warm fronts,
Surviving only in the holy sanctuary of each others' arms,
And even when their battling storms came,
They came out with hands locked,
Gladiatorial victors of all things wicked their way come,
Possible love strung between them in the month of November,
Between Autumn and Holly.
The world grew below them,
and they did their work exactly as the atmosphere demands them,
They can nearly feel it in their bones when each meteorological tide must come,
It is the way their work happens,
And the way their world, our world turns,
Between Autumn and Holly.
Yet as humankind appeared and grew there was something stirring,
There were mechanisms and smoke clouds and an unbelievable flurry,
A heavy weight of some subversive demon latching itself lightly onto the lovers,
Then deeper,
But they refused to open their eyes; their earth and humanity won't either,
So the demon festered and grew to breathe noxious fire,
Eventually making the air too caustic in their ignorance,
Between Autumn and Holly.
Words could not be spoken after the inevitable occurred,
Autumn's world is near dead from a new, ferocious Holly storm,
A touch of the hand is all each heartbroken season wanted,
But they and the world stayed silent when everything's wrong,
And those fingertips and their vast love and brilliance created this hell,
A silence and death fell onto the possible love that possibly could have been forever,
Between Autumn and Holly.
Silence is their new normal,
Quid pro quo, in a way,
Holly's eyes scream her sorrow and guilt,
Her lips, on the other hand, say nothing,
Instead of their beloved, romantic November,
They now only meet for work,
The world becomes more chaotic and its weather distressed,
And the chasm between them grows larger with each atmospheric catastrophe,
The squalls screaming like their broken hearts,
All created by their ****** brilliant fingertips,
Between Autumn and Holly.
All they have left is staring down at their world and their humanity,
Hoping one day their November, their seasons, their world can be its own again,
It is too late for them to change the tides of the atmosphere,
But across the chasm they both somber and hope one day, some day, something can bridge the divide and:
Calm the atmospheric disaster,
Calm the storms,
Calm the world,
A maybe even fix the possible love that is left,
Between Autumn and Holly.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
To Antonia
Different things:
a book read,
this flower picked,
one kiss taken.
And things that delight:
in the library,
amidst a garden,
caught in love’s embrace.
And my delight:
to keep control
and hold a sense
of rightness ruling
every action,
every thought,
every instance
met or made.
Let me look at all I see
that comes my way,
and with my eyes
make welcome;
no discrimination,
no diversion left
(or right) to comfort’s zone.
May all I touch, acquire, retain,
be honoured, rightly valued,
rightly owned, and used
well, and again.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:14 AM UTC
everywhere us control freaks are categorized as the bad people.
we're the narcissists-
the mean ones.
every assumption leads to us being put off as people who abuse those around us.
i am a control freak.
i get furious when things don't go my way to the point of wanting to cry.
i hate being wrong.
i want to ****** the happiness and the "rightness" off of your smug face.
i want to grab my throat and squeeze the stupidity out of me.
i want to bash your mouth with my fist until you can no longer speak-
until your words are so incomprehensible that everything you're saying must be wrong.
i want to always be the smartest guy in the room,
i hate not being the smartest guy in the room.
i want and i want and i want
but i never do anything about it.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
I used to love apologies
When you’d admit your wrongness in lew of
my rightness my pride did somersaults
with my ego
I would spend hours admiring their
acrobats and my posture would reflect
their newly practiced muscles with ease
Your apologies were music to my ears
until the bow broke the string
Now the music isn’t right
The gentle hum of my ego doesn’t find
comfort in your shame anymore
I now beg you to stop the music
It has become a terrible scream
A high pitched ringing no one else can
hear but I swear it’s there and I’m not just
crazy or lacking potassium
I want to grab a needle and thread and
sew your mouth shut before you can ever
apologize again
You cannot control the weather
Don’t apologize when I say that I’m cold
You cannot control my sleeping habits
So don’t apologize when you hear how I
couldn’t sleep last night because I
was craving something but didn’t know what
it was and I couldn’t go to bed without it
Don’t apologies to me
When you say you’re sad please don’t
apologize
We are all sad sometimes
There is no shame in realizing our
happiness is only skin deep sometimes
When you say you don’t understand the
joke I just made please don’t apologize
I promise I will explain it to you differently
even if it loses its humor that way
I know you can’t control how your brain
deciphers the meaning of words
When you read my expressions wrong
please don’t apologize
It was my fault for not seeing your
hesitation and confusion and failing to
comfort your headspace with promises
that I’m not mad or upset
I promise it’s just my face and you
heard me the wrong way
That’s okay
I hear things wrong sometimes too
But please don’t apologize for being you.
---Autism is funny that way
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
War is so romantic,
Don't you think?
The women swooning for the strong men,
The uniforms and stubborn stances.
Their confidence in the rightness of their ways,
Turns the hearts of ladies soft.
The young eyes and naïveté of those lily white boy soldiers who believe in their invincibility,
Is so appealing to the women on the sidelines
The day dreams of nursing the men back to health,
And having one fall deep, deep in love with you.
Their nurse, caretaker as you have become
Appeals to that hopeless romantic..
But what happens when they return?
The innocence gone,
A haunted look in the beautiful broken eyes.
When their bodies are shaken-
And their minds aren't quite right.
Who has the strength to cradle their fragile forms,
And stand there beside them in the night?
To hush them when they cry at the horrors they have seen.
So many hundreds of thousands of wars;
Where the boys come back as shattered men,
Where they come back without their friends
And they can't quite cope with their new reality.
Yes there is romanticism in war,
But when does it stop being a novel
And start identifying as a horror story?
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
character styles, characters we’ve missed
attempted to put on pedestals
characters whose wits got them out of the worst situations
or whose worst qualities got them into the best ones
who have been balding and have ended up heroes
who have overcome obstacles, some
some who had less and and achieved more
but achievement seems to be the underscore, yes
of nationality? of pride? of masculinity? of assertion? hard to say
do we need more stories in more forms or fewer stories and more individuality, more self-awareness,
awareness, awareness, awareness, funny word thrown around a lot
do people even know? most of the time they don’t, they are staring down at their shoes
or some characters are looking up at the sky
anyways, they don’t understand the issue, what is at stake, stop celebrating! start studying!
or you are studying too much! the wrong drugs, the right drugs! too much of the right thing can make anyone go insane
or the other way around, the right amount of the wrong thing can make anyone go freely about their day, and
achieve, back to that word
and what does it even mean? to achieve something? greater than yourself? for yourself to be a reflection of that thing? or that thing to be a reflection of self?
man, we could debate about this for hours, where’s my coffee? or beer, or wine, your choosing
man, what did I have for breakfast, I honestly forgot
or no, it was toast and cofffee, yes I think its time for a stiff drink now
and then another hour to achieve something, to write something, to widdle something, to create something that was not there before
but some say GO, ** BA HA! to hell with objectivity, everything is recycled, nothing more
and they wave their hands about as if it was borrowed from a magician, and their hearts flare up with some sort of richeousness, and they achieve…rightness?
back to that again…achievement…what does it even mean?
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
You have the roundest head I've
ever seen,
Defensive,
It looks like a baldspot but it isn't,
The soft pulsing of the room,
Sit sweet,
melodious,
cacaphony via 80 dollar
made in Indonesia,
Staring deep within the wooden casket,
to find out,
just where it came from,
There are people that
treat this world as if
they lived in a prison,
those that are not,
conscious of the concept, realism
they'll never truly understand,
that it is all a prison and ****
a cacophony of rightness
and wrongness.
The light ever draped,
over shadow's shoulder,
the comforting caress,
of wonderful abandonment,
wrought for not,
want less.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
What balm is there
in being right?
Especially rightness,
righteousness
grounded in bitterness--
are you joining me in my misery?
I do not want
my happiness to come
at the expense of yours--
as if there were some
limited supply of it;
some small cupful--
snatching at the drops
that fall.
If I want compassion+mercy
extended to me
then I **** well better
extend it to others.
And so I go forward,
waving olive branches.
Will you grasp back?
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
Those blessed with children
already know something
of the fellowship
kinship brings when
gathered indiscriminately;
how the rightness of place and time
wraps itself around,
makes a gift to hang
on the Christmas tree of memory.
In this house
lives a tangible presence
of past coming-togethers:
long long days of comfortable conversations,
warm greetings passed on the stairs.
See here - that dear head bent over a crossword,
and through a window, look!, a child in the garden;
Always, always - the kitchen laughter.
And spreading between all this
a glue of music
binding with its miracle formula
the separateness of strings and fingers.
In the joy of Opus 20.No.2
(played between friends)
an intensity of action and reaction
sings; born out of listening
with calm intent and
with selfless attention given -
one to another.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
The thrill of the chase...
A chaste example, to acquire a hill
Meant in dole and measure, the evening pace
Of a risen question, which has nerves to chill
Heat is a wavering sense of redoubt
Sent by accept and due a looking herald
Find a shadow of differ, with a comparison's pout
Share and weal to endow, a question of waiting held?
Maybe, a light has a wealth we can have?
Said to bared and curious, superiority
Will a stranger deed in the presence of need, pass?
Asking for the so, a mutual live to do, is am affinity?
Character is a reigning hope, to understate a gift?
Soul to deified how, in a calling to wryed eyes
When we are the eyes of rightness, risen of airs to lift
A season of justness, with a moment assuring silence...
Is the goal of sincerity...
Is the given of simplicity...
Is the god of serendipity...
Is the gesture of sakes city...
Who?
And the hill, of reason taken to reality
Of visions fortitude, a ply of when sense is too soon
Will we become like ourselves, at the sight of future integrity?
Mar 19, 2023
Mar 19, 2023 at 3:03 PM UTC
Packet of Time
T'is the custom of some,
To do their self-sums,
Periodically,
A self-review of
What is seen
When standing before the
Mirror that cannot lie.
Some like Xmas, while others
Count their turkey feathers
on January first.
Others numerical ***** on
The fifteenth of April,
As required by the IRS.
Others habit bound,
Do a spring cleaning,
Or an annualized medical checkup.
Then there are the enviable few,
Who never do
Such an exercise,
For being sure of one's rightness
Precludes the necessity of having their
**** probed, their status, already known.
As I lie in bed at four am,
Waking after a four hour packet of rest,
Began to wonder, what is the proper period
That a person should time themselves out,
Take a look back, do a "get back Jack,"
To find where they not once belonged,
But where they should set the course heading.
Here is where
This poem gets
Deadly
Serious.
One minute please!
One on, one off.
Did you just spend the minute prior,
Setting your brain on fire,
Scrub away the false pretenses,
Or waste 60 of them on mindless telly?
Day dream, plan and scheme,
Outline the plan, man,
Or curse your fate
The one you, Nate,
Created.
Seems quite expensive,
Spending half a life
Thinking how to
Spend the other half.
But a **** worthwhile,
Notion,
likely to reduce
Self- promotion.
For after but a few such minutes,
You will likely conclude,
Better to think of others,
Than yourself.
Then you truly begin,
The voyage human.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
As my fickle pen sweeps across the chosen page,
Its unsteady stream of ink spouts scattered thoughts of thou…
Oh, that my grief were not so! If only my mind could wander
Without inevitably pausing upon thy fabricated tombstone!
But alas, for such luxury is not mine to own, that pleasant sense
Of rightness in the world so often dubbed peace of mind
For mine is not to be had, for how can there exist
Peace of mind without peace of heart? There ‘tis
I find the keeper of my despondency, my heart is at war!
Not warring another, mind, but with itself!
The ceaseless battle rages, with neither side being the victor,
Instead, my heart is torn apart…but who am I to complain?
For were my heart a whole, it would do an equal good
As that it does in two. What good is a flower
That has no stem to hold it upright? Instead of embracing
The sun, it floats aimlessly downstream ‘til
It disappears beneath the current, ne’er to be seen again.
This t’would be the fate of my heart were’t to remain whole.
Thus, by waging war upon my emotions I succeed
In preserving my sanity. For this, and this alone,
I thank thee. For without the pain dealt me by thine hand
I would still be drowning. Not drowning in sorrow,
As a part of me has already done, but drowning in illusion.
This illusion that I so easily fell victim to suffocated
All my senses, particularly that of reality, leaving no barrier
Between thy murderous rage and my vulnerability.
The knife thou plunged in my chest will forever be the divider
Between what was and what remains: The object
Of my devotion and destruction, one and the same,
Yet separate, for a part of me is remains willing to die
For love of thou, but still the other part is willing to die for none.
To die willingly by another’s hand is different than to die by thy own,
If only because thou diest knowing ‘twas another’s will.
Thus I inherently refuse to surrender my whole heart
To another’s cause, and so the battle rages on…
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 8:00 PM UTC
All our lives we’ve been told to keep it low
Keep our dreams out of sight and on hold, and our thoughts dressed up in clothes…
Our hopes were like golden blue bows slipping from our frozen poses...
Our hopes for any kind of rightness peering out
from under our beds of excitement turned to functional poison…
And who are we now? The ones that look dead in a beautiful way… we never got to know us but say we’re okay…
And there’s so many actual dead, but we feel like we’ve lost a million realities before us…
So we say how it’s absurd and grotesque,
Shake our heads, and try to expect less…
And when the bullet finally flies towards us in slow motion; we question its beauty… the cold silver glow of a car window with the hope a teetering feeling is imbuing…
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 11:45 AM UTC
An abstraction of the mind
Which left a mind blind
From all the beauty
Of the outside world
Was it the word or the world?
Was it the mystery of the swirl?
Was it the majestic benevolence
Of that 2am girl?
Maybe it was something,
Maybe
It was nothing
But there was some beauty in the way that Her
Nothingness
Moved about in a room full of somebody's
Some
Bodies
With faces that pinch their pennies
When they catch the whiff
Of a dismembered mutant
Smeared in a politically corrected rightness
Ye' faith has been tampered with
There ain't much else to do
But accept that faith you were born with
And dance with the Devil's mischief
Dance the two step with someone
That shrinks when you move their way
There ain't nothing much else to say
When you know we all gonna' pay
High wind take me on your scheme
There ain't another stitch in this seam
My wheels are weak creaking white powder
And I'm hearing a late midnight sounder
Eh' lady you know where you've been
And I can bet you remember half the things you've seen
Member that egg shell moon that broke white crash?
There was something in that wave
That makes me wanna' obey
But forget about the things that I never said I knew
And forget about the face that hangs forever blue
A current ripples at the top of this afternoon sun
Lets go out
And be the bullet
To this gun
May 4, 2011
May 4, 2011 at 4:03 PM UTC
There once was a girl named Suzzie.
I guess you could say Suzzie
was missing some vital screws in her younger years.
All day and all night, Suzzie would amuse to enthuse,
until the point of misuse.
Before finding herself reusing.
Relapsing into that old familiar abuse.
You could say, Suzzie wasn't content in her life.
Hell-bent on the decent into torment.
*** violence... drugs...*
And to what extent...
Consenting to the need?
Proceeding to only concede?
The black bead...
The devilish ****
A seed to heed warning too.
All day and all night, Suzzie would churn.
Yearning for her upturn,
for the point of no return.
Instead Suzzie turned her life around.
A full 360.
She learned, to earn.
Spurred by her yearning and churning,
of a childhood induced coma.
Kindness; rightness...
The mere brightness all from Suzzie's mindset.
A guidance from the righteous highness.
She's won her inner crisis at last!
"Bye, bye Black Tar, Suzzie!"
"Hello, the newer better you!"
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
"the encompassment of these words is stunning; existential angst in a fruit, or section thereof hurtling into space. makes sense though, if i lived in a runaway time capsule, i'd want fruit too, perfect or no. nice poem"
Say what?
Take a noun and make it noun-er.
Take philosophy and dress it down.
Take a fruit, an orange, section it, throw it into space, then agonize over its rightness of being.
Thee musn't feel that one's overuse of semi-archaic phrases and punctuation lessens the actuality of the expression being made. Indeed, it serves only to encapsulate the soundness of thine understandingness and thine expressions of agreement-oneness with the effervescent bubbliness needed to attract one's readers to continue with their reading of one's liturgy of the meaningfulness of the outerworlds and innertimes. Throw in Gaia, underworlds, swords and flames. Trees with names. socks with shoes. Oftentimes these travel through the continuum side by side, yet unencumbered with knowingness of the other, unembraced by the unembraceable.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
This soul you gave
Has lost its way.
It doesn't know who made
It anymore.
Hashem, this soul
Instead of purified
Is petrified,
And heavy and full.
This soul in me's got
A little identity crisis,
With matter and anger tugging war
With rightness.
Perhaps this soul
Is mean, unfaithful.
Created divine, it still can't find
The innocence to make it grateful.
This soul needs help to find it's way,
Restorer of essence to body from sleep,
Return essence to that godly piece,
Allow your presence within me to keep.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
It is a sad, sad story
for the successes of the past do not fare to serve us in the present
the logic of the bully is a nationalist sigh of relief
and the arc of our world is divided by invisible lines that cross borders
but across which only poverty **** recorded and scored, shall pass
when the successful liar is preferred to the lonely sage
are we not prepared to accept that which we serve
are we not prepared to eat from the plate we have earned
to sup on anarchistic attitudes, imbibe narcoleptic morality
then purge our selective brutality on the servers
for we have earned this, that which fell into our laps
a modern life made tolerable by the indictments of demagogues
for freedom’s a blight in the nightmares of demagogues
shopkeepers made frightful by the incitement of demagogues
we don’t need rights when we’ve the rightness of demagogues
we know they are liars, but are they successful liars?
we know they start fires so they can be better seen
presiding over the funereal pyre of our former freedom
some bishop of hate and self-interest raised up by our fear
to a pulpit of nations drawn low by wage slavery
to a podium impatient for their arrogant knavery
to a rostrum of hatred unsated by gross economic products
to a minbar frustrated by allegations and false prophets
It is a sad, sad story
for our past failures, our careless disregard will not serve us in the present
the logic of the bully is the demagogues rise to belief
we are weakest only when we are weak
and no backs will lift this burden but our own
A sad story indeed
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC