Destruction bubbles deep inside.
Like Simba,
I must runaway from my pride.

Hey Human! I am your Sibling.

Queen bee wings are Ripped,
bee niblings are Smoked
For Your Honey Sweet.
Hey human! Listen your Sibling’s Buzz.

Tiger lost bones for Medicine,
Fox lost fur for Fashion,
Sharks lost fins for Soup.
Hey human! Do Not Butcher Siblings.

Simba’s life is not your Trophy,
Jumbo’s tusks are not Decors,
Helmets of Hornbills are not jewels.
Hey human! Do Not Reap Siblings.

Emperors of ice continent lost land,
Economics is making Amazon less,
Logging makes Orangutans homeless.
Hey human! Do Not Invade Siblings.

Warm oceans bleach corals,
Water depleted in cities,
We ingest plastic regularly.
Hey human! Do Not Desert the Earth.

Overfishing is holocaust of aquatic life,
Livestock levitates toxic emissions.
Hey human! Do Not Prey on Siblings.

Lichens stunned by pollution,
Symbionts are disintegrating,
Biodiversity is declining.
Hey human! Be Together with Siblings.

Hey Human! We are Offsprings of Mother Nature.
Monera, Animalia, Fungi, Plantae, Protista
all have common roots.
We are branches of the one Phylogenetic Tree
rooting Common Ancestry unto LUCA.

Hey Human! We are Siblings.
Hey Human! Recall your Siblings.
Hey Human! Revive your Siblings.

swashbuckling kittens wallpaper -- cutlasses, eyepatches, royal blue bandanas --
lined the walls of the kitchen.

"you love it, don't you?" Mathilda asked. she poured me a glass of almond milk.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever. and ever. and ever.
fridge door open. it's sparse. a world weary McDonald's bag and a last chapter beer,
the only other tenants.

"it's neat," I said. don't care much for animals. don't hate them by any means,
but don't go out of my way for them. my analyst says it's Sparks, Oklahoma's fault.
see, when a boy, I had seven---no, eight kittens named Simba. the howl of the coyote
taught me about expiration dates. Had a hard time accepting total loss (e.g., eight Simbas).

"do you feel okay?" Mathilda asked. and I didn't. but I said,

"yeah, yeah. sorry about waking you up last night. just didn't think I could make it home."

"I noticed you slept perpendicular to the futon. with your sneakers on. interesting choice."

Mathilda can be funny. and the almond milk was good. and like I said, I could drink it with
her forever. the ceiling fan, though, rocked off-kilter. she had stray, sad balloons in orbit
around the fan. imagined the balloon with the red-lettered "BOO-YAH" entering the wake
of the wobbling blades. imagined the blades flying off one-by-one. imagined one striking
me in the head and freeing me of a hangover. imagined being in the back of the line outside
the gates of heaven, while St. Peter kept letting the hot, single girls cut in line.

"will you?" Mathilda repeated, I think.

"will I, what?"

"take a picture of me in front of the wallpaper."

"sure."

"sorry, I've taken like 30 selfies trying to get Grace to re-notice me.
starting to feel like a chronic masturbator."

"what do you mean?"

"well, you know, selfies are pathetic indulgences in narcissism. hell, they can be
necessary, as is the case this time, I assure you---but pathetic, nonetheless."

took the phone. Mathilda stood in front of the pirate kitten wallpaper.
she leaned forward. made a kissy face.

"do you have to do that?" I asked.

"don't bust my *****," she said, "just take the photo. I know what Grace likes."

the two broke up last week. Mathilda in her oh-yeah-wanna-run-off-with-ol-banana-***** fury
threw a ******* party with balloons (they were tethered to things at the time.
the dining chairs, cabinet doors, the wrists of guests, etc., etc.). I left early that night.
I'm straight and not very relevant. so, well, you get it.

"would you like some coffee too?" she didn't look up. with locust clicks she fingered
the screen of her phone, uploading the kissy face, pirate kitten wallpaper picture to
her Tumblr. I nodded.

at the party she bedded two skeletal, Sylvia Plath feminists. self-fulfilling prophecy.
she'd written about the then-fictitious scenario months ago on her blog.
Mathilda called me crying the following morning. between the
shame/guilt/self-pity wails, she advised, "don't ever be the third wheel in a threeway."
noted. she said the three had a silent, last breakfast before they left. and I said something
to the effect of, you didn't let them go near the oven did you?

the first droplets of coffee hissed as they struck the bottom of the ***.

"if only coffee were a woman," Mathilda said. "am I right?"

"if coffee were a woman, I'm afraid I'd still pour her into a fine porcelain cup and drink her."

"you're awful."

and I am. but she doesn't mind because I've been celibate for two years, and she's been
so successful it brings her down. off-setting penalties, the basis of our friendship. or maybe
it's the way we leave things where they fall or rise. natural resting places. Simbas. balloons.

when the brew idles I grab two cups. fill hers three-quarters full. she likes almond milk in it.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever, I swear. to the fridge. the ceiling fan
seems a bit louder. one-by-one the blades. and heaven. and St. Peter, the pervert.
gave the almond milk a shake.

"why you holding on to the McDonald's bag and the practically empty beer?
I think they're starting to smell."

she didn't answer. well, not right away, anyway. and I took that to mean they belonged
to Grace. natural resting places. so, I mix the almond milk into the coffee.

"I know I should throw it out. Grace doesn't even like McDonald's. Do you know what's
in that bag?"

"I don't."

"avocados."

"what?"

"yeah. one of her friends works there. just cut up some avocados for her."

what sacrilege. made me tired, you know? fast food avocados, selfies,
Sylvia Plath feminists, etc., etc. the ceiling fan sped up, for no reason, I think.
the balloons cast shadows over the dining table. and I could drink almond milk
with a lesbian forever. trust me. just not under those conditions. beeline for
the fridge. door open. snagged the bag of blacker-than-brown avocados
and the bottle of beer.

"stop. she could be back any day," Mathilda said.

and what I should of said was no. what I should have said was Grace,
for all intents and purposes, was dead. and what she was doing
was reusing a dead name. and reusing a dead name isn't a resurrection.
but what I said was, "okay." and I sat down under the ceiling fan.
my natural resting place. almond milk forever. and ever. and ever.

He and I
Are like lions
Magnificent golden fur
Clumsy oversized paws
Content to lounge
Warm grass blades
Or stalk prey
Under the stars
And the moon
Beneath feline pride
Is a ferocity
To keep us
Both forever safe

Dear Chris,
When I think of you
I see inferior
A cub to a lion

I am Simba
Flow game unreal
The Lion King

You are Pumba
Foolish
No flow

I can't be referred to as your lioness
That's not cool bro

Yeah that's me, my life, except my companion went away and died.. <3 The Lion King Without His Queen

King of the lions
Hai-ku-na-ma-ta-ta
Simba, what a *****.

Is life a circle or is it a road ?
A means to an end
Or a forever rolling stone?

Are my actions causing an effect
Or am I repeating my steps?

There is a road less traveled
And there the road that looks pretty

And they both lead me to the same place

Rolling in my own mistakes

And I stare at people and think
Are they real or is it a combination of my minds ink
Mixed with something unknown
Making everyones story, my own

I wrote this
Or did I?

I  dont know.

But I want you to hold me when I'm alone.
Even though I live my life like the true man show

Is any of it real ?

I dont know.
But I still want you to hold me
Cause I am alone.

When I was a kid
I wanted a pet cat.
A disney cat.
Simba or Copa.
Do you remember Copa?
Do you remember the excitement
of your imagination
post movie
when its catchy music
that made want to dance.
A dance made of
skipping and jumping jax
with imaginary pompons and maracas

the ontological basis, comparatively
with what the people think when too many
politicians exist due to centralisation
of government, with so many parliamentary
members paid a wage yet still so aloof
that they have no eagerness for local
governing of things: we all know the Orwellian
metaphor of pigs by the trough:
cabbage and porridge, we all know the joke...
but when the zeitgeist of the populace is
plagiarism and ******* you must surely
admire politicians... they feed the people
facts slowly, instead of feeding them
carbonate ***** of wheat to bloat the chickens'
stomachs, they feed them breadcrumbs...
politicians delay matters so much so that
conspiracy theories arise...
for indeed people are not so much critical
of politicians, but of the number that emerges...
esp. those not schooled in sophism,
but rather schooled in unnecessary observance...
there is more to observe on the streets outside
the palace of Westminster than there is within in...
the lawn Mohican on Churchill's statue
with a pink lipstick around his face
and Caduceus revised Baphomet on his walking
stick... how i prescribed myself headphones to
create an artificial cerebral buzz-maker
each time i hear the blood sizzling fizz...
without everything being too quick or too immediate,
politicians are delayers of things...
they want the schoolroom banter to take place,
they're the ones unafraid to make and poke fun at
each other, sophism is intended for that...
philosophy takes offence too easily, hence it's
dangerous, it's limited to public engagement
because it's intended for individualisation of circumstances:
whether you end up homeless on a street
or ordained a palace and a crown;
you can't describe philosophy in five minutes
in the same way that you can't limit politics into
the same confinement... zoologically speaking it's
necessary for a lion to be kept in a cage as long as he's
being kept in it as a glutton who frequently sleeps
because he's well fed and doesn't dream of lamb-shanks
but instead of  being Simba (a Disney character)...
politicians delay and provide dietary requirements
of what the public ought to know... they're
like dieticians, they give you a dietary scheme of things,
because so many of us are prescribed duties
it would be madness to suddenly tell you:
Martians visited us last December, we need to
throw away our workman's utensils and go and pray
to them for free food and unlimited electricity;
in this sense i can't disrespect politicians,
i just think that an excess of them in Parliament is
what's fuelling a public disgruntling...
but the thing is... the politicians that people are disgruntled
about are not those in the mainstream, they're
not from the centralised "celebrity" batch of politicians,
they from local governments, and their presence in
the centralised house of commons is really disgruntling
to the public in most respects...
either way, admiration for politicians slowing it down,
disrupting the sharing of facts so that we
can accept our functions without anarchistic boredom
being awoken like some Godzilla...
in terms of facts i want to be a Columbus,
on my own initiative... i don't want to be a ******* turkey...
wanting to be a turkey breeds conspiracy theories...
in a torture chamber you just here: 'but they fed me this!
but they fed me this!' 'and you were stupid enough
to mistake facts for propaganda? catch the surf, ******!'
wanting to be a Columbus means you don't care
to own a plasma television and a Ford Mustang.

Get it right or get out of here.

to my son I love you you're everything to me. you are me will be times in your life. that I should make you prepared for and is times in life I can't prepare you for you are one of the greatest things in my life you changed my life you probably never read this by the time you can I'll be old as dirt and you going to hang around with a fogey I want you to be intelligent strong way I was brought up but it's okay to be a punk sometimes and if he's bigger than you pick something on. That's what I was told to do.at some point you're going to be insecure perfectly normal I want to be there walking to your first class but I missed it don't worry daddy you for help make it the graduation dog you should have been my junior. I know there are something in the world that I've done side obvious that you probably hate me for as will be some things in life I hope you're proud of I want you to know you're my son I remember when you brought me a sweat top with a Superman s on it you first came back from Virginia you weren't even talking yet then I woke up that morning and you looked at me you spoke clearly.now you're walking and running talking like a little freaking oh my god I can't describe it I probably could be the **** of the earth but i will be a backbone needed anyone ever hurt you I'm ready to **** for you I will die for my children my little Simba you know I was calling you Simba before you came out I am called you fat boy which uncle hated it and your other uncle told me you like being called nick better like he knew better in your third uncle I didn't agree with and hold you at the time I was envious there goes that insecurity thing we were talking about I hope you can read this one day and I'll be scared when your 16 steal your own like your dad was does some stupid things life threatening things I know you're my son be careful I was blessed to have great friends even though you may run across some great people you make them respect you and respect their differences and differences of opinion you understand me love you Nicholas your name should have been Jeffrey Dean Jackson but at that moment me and mother had a disagreement and you know how I am such a mother now she said we scream we all scream by to give in she brings me to another point with you you going to be a strong person i proud of our time with you myself going to watch your way blame it on your name going to call your child is for the way you are but it's not childish that's who you are you're not going to take mess with nobody or like being told what to do but you're my son even if I am the only one who understand you be a mama's boy take out that trash be there when she's hurting and tired from working for you for y'all be the man that I want you to be you understand me I regret regret regret the time that I did leave you for my own foolish court so to speak don't think that I didn't love at the time it wasn't your mother it was some things I couldn't handle but you gotta understand I was waiting on you since I was 18 years old and I'm sorry should have been here and Lord knows I can't wait to be able to walk down the street with me and talk I can't wait for our first drink together I can't wait to catch you smoking a blunt I don't want you getting hurt that first time that you fall off your bike I want to be able to pick you up and tell you that you're the best man in this world that you might have competition with that again that goes to who you are cockiness you're going to pick up the confidence you goin to have comes natural you're my son and your mother's baby who thought of Capricorn and Leo can make that. any man would be proud of you or to have you as their son you're going to be strong guy very very strong and again I'm scared of you not for you Nor a sense out of fear. more along the lines of capability. that's not a bad thing in my eyes you'll never fall and there's nothing that you can do that can't be forgiven by me or your mother we do love you and I'm sorry that this moment you're not with me wait till your 21 you'll see exactly how I feel love you Nicholas Dean.

It's pouring out now
wondering how
it is on
the shore

Wishing I was smelling
the salt air
probably wouldn't be
such a bore

Walk on the beach
with only a glair
by myself wondering
why I was there

No one would be
on the sand
even if there were
two people
or
more than a
hundred

For the sands
Through The Hourglass
Are not the same
as they would be under
my feet

The sound of the Waves
crashing on the
shore
sound so much
better before

Take a deep breath
**** it all in
This trip will
be over
Another will begin

The sun is out now
this is how
my poem
will end

Simba

My favorite color is green.

It has been since I first discovered how lively the shade could be.

My favorite character of all time in anything ever is Edward Elric from Fullmetal Alchemist.

His determination and short-lived angry outbursts will always mean something to me.

My favorite animal character is Simba from the Lion King, or Kovu from the second one.

My favorite book is a tie between To **** a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and Dracula by Bram Stoker.

My favorite poet is T.S. Eliot, my favorite poem by him is The Hollow Men.

My favorite poem is by Charles Bukowski. It's called Bluebird.

Bukowski speaks to me because he's a sarcastic **** that's seen way too much, and everything he writes is practically satire on how human behavior is selfish but beautiful.

My favorite work of Edgar Allen Poe's is the Black Cat.

I despise all works of Robert Frost's besides "Nothing Gold Can Stay", mainly because I disagree with him. Sometimes gold can stay.

Peculiar and Juxtaposition are my favorite words.

I'm excellent at certain subjects (science, Literature) and horrible at others (math, history). I love science because I'm illogical and creative but vividly clear at all points in time. I am horrible at history because I get angry that so many people were hurt.

My favorite war in American history to learn about was the Civil War, because there are so many things we are unsure of. I have a three thousand page encyclopedia on it at my foster parents house.

My favorite tea is green jasmine tea with two and half teaspoonfuls of sugar for every eight ounces.

I count yellow cars, and then have vivid flashbacks to things I don't want to remember.

I have tiny routines that root from obsessive compulsive behaviors that come with being Bipolar. I have manic depressive disorder, to be specific.

When I hold hands with someone, my wrist needs to be behind theirs. I like feeling small and safe, and I'm childish when I feel safe.

I hate being called small or being treated like a child. I have a height complex, because I am small. I also have a hero complex. I want to protect people.

My favorite food right now is probably the katsu chicken one of my best friends made one night when I hadn't eaten for over forty eight hours.

I only eat instant ramen if I can make it spicy, but only the chicken one because the shrimp one always makes me sick.

Apple cider is my favorite winter drink.

My favorite writing platform is a chalkboard or pavement.

My favorite writing utensil are either chalk markers or chalk itself.

I count down the minutes until good things happen.

I take a kind of relaxation after the headache after I cry too hard passes. The relief is beautiful.

I laugh a lot, yell a lot, and cry a lot.

When I feel too strong an emotion, positive or negative, I yell. I don't always have the best control of my volume, seeing as I'm usually very quiet.

I try to manage money and time but I'm horrible at both.

I cry when I'm happy and sad and angry because I feel too much too often.

I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Name a thing, I bet I can make it bad.

"If" is my least favorite word.

I don't generally say things unless I am 100% certain, because I can never be 100% in anything else.

I have PTSD.

My favorite coping skill is writing, baking, or holding a stuffed animal. Pillows don't count.

I used to carry dolls wherever I went because I was of the mindset "***** what everyone else thinks, I need to feel safe."

I don't always feel secure, but safe is a start.

I've learned I am a better person
Than I've thought.

So I think of my favorite things,
And think "If these are the parts of me
That make up who I am,
Then I cannot be so bad."

Rain forest warm,
predicting a storm,
hippos, giraffes and more
Parumping the water hole.
didn’t take us long, to slap a crown
on a fools heart.
Everything the light touches
made the lions cold.

had to many sad boys in your bed.
(To tune of: Nants ingonyama bagithi baba from: Lion king intro)

Moat of toys,
prey on canniballs,
venison visceral
Drop your bridge Shallow moat.

Midus touch,
rabbit didn't quite touch
lucky enough, your trust, bust
The weatherman cuts.
Can't fight a storm with a pack
Of lions, and djarum butts
Cool Cats don't like the water
won't splash,
might soil their tight pants
Sea captain called
old Horizen won't dance
"listen to your old man".
not worth a penny of your sand.
but if we weren't so green-headed,
A compas might save our hand
for marriage
we don't want plans
They don't understand
want to roll around with simba
Giggling in the butterflies
when they're gone, find another man.

Now that my
Parents are dead,
I guess it's okay
To tell what they did
To me as a babe.

They tore off my limbs
And they dug me a grave,
Cuz I said that I would
But I didn't behave.

They split up the parts
And dug up a ditch
In six different yards
So I couldn't restitch.

They should've guessed
I couldn't stay
In eternal rest
For more than a day.

My hands dug in the dirt
To find one another,
My feet kicked in the clay
To be with each other
Once again, to start it all over.

I reassembled
Under the moon
And slowly ambled
Up to my room
With all my stuffed animals
Waiting to be told
What they should do.

I told them my plan
To get my payback,
First we'd get Sam
And then we'd attack
His pretty wife Jan.

My lion Simba
Clawed out their eyes,
My polar bear Nimbus
Bit into their thighs
And tore off their legs
Like they had done mine.

My giraffe Mr. Skeep
Wrapped his neck around theirs
And put them to sleep
By stealing their air.

My job complete,
I walked down the stairs,
Got something to eat
Then split apart,
Said bye to my feet,
And went back to the dark
Under the streets
That my lovely parents
Intended for me.

when I tuck her in, sheets tight under her chin,
pillows fluffed three times wide ways and long ways
(we just might have a type A child yet!)

I notice her eyes. wet, round dinner plates.

there's nothing I need to ask. she has nothing to say.
nothing that hasn't been said in the glances we
exchange over a teddy bear we clutch,
arms slowly ripping from the seams.

she grabs my hand and squeezes,
tighter than I did when she was born.

just five years ago, I screamed,
tossed back my head, sweaty hair
clinging to my scalp like soggy noodles.

the doctor held her up, Simba style.
I closed my eyes gently and slept through the trumpets.

now we're here, in this bed, in this fear
that neither of us can speak.

when her eyelids befriend her cheeks,
and the dinosaur music box hits its last run,
I creep to the door, edging one creak against another;
then I hear it,
barely a whisper, but loud and clear:

*why do the good guys have to die?

I lay here open
Open to possibilities and opportunities that present themselves for me with you
But i Can't seem to break through this wall I have put up
A wall made jus for me to protect and keep me from harmful situations
Many contemplations about how am I gonna get through this again
So I kept building and building on my personal wall
Yeah see I built this wall with pain over and over and over  
A lil dab of betrayal
A pinch of some scorn
Oh and shovel full of layers of scar tissue covered with stitches for recovery
Yeah I built this wall meticulously
I would sometimes feel like I'm a guest
Sometimes like an outsider in my own skin
Moving along like a night rider
Nobody seeing me or believing me
So I carry some heavy footgear
Holding them in my rear stow away I use it to move along through life without any scars, or that's what I try to do
This footgear feels great because I can stomp, jump, and even do cartwheels over all my enemies
Ancient conviction
Shindy misleadings all leading up to my success
Leaving me blessed
Riding along this pack train saying hello mufasa and simba
Oh and rifiki is there
What's up....
See I admire their strength and agility
I even know who continues to keep me
A higher power and His name is Jesus
Love Him to pieces
But someone came outta nowhere
Out From left field Try to catch the Foul ball
Jumping over bases and even some left field men
Trying to Break through my wall
Shining some light on my night rider journey
Complicated feelings taking many meanings
My head is spinning
Fear rising...leaving me paralyzed even though I still feel your touch when I'm away from you
I'm scared...even some what terrified that I lie here and all I can think of is you
Wondering if my brain waves can send out a signal over to you so that you know how I feel
See night riders they don't open up
Staying closed
Sign on the door...
No more customers...the day is over
See We ride in the dark
Trying to keep feelings secret
A loner when it comes to sharing emotions
Commotion on the inside but calm on the outside
But maybe you can be my knight in shinning amour breaking down my walls
Chipping and chipping away through all the dust and the rumble
I may even stumble over you but at least I'll be in your arms
Feeling safe through your touch that even peels away some of the hurt
So right now I may be a night rider but I'm moving towards the horizon that is the beginning of some light

Dream works; Lion King
Simba talks to Mufasa.
That's when I pulled my pants up, and started fixing my posture.
Then looked up above.
I struggle with love.
Struggle with hate.
Hard to debate.
Leave and change when I fall But I still wanna participate.

22 in 10 days.
Turning 22, in 10 different ways
A different shade.
A midnight black, to a faded gray.
I opened this chapter.
Dressed for the rapture.
Run and tell master.
While they're telling Ima take it all to the pastor.
Or am I dreaming?
Wake up Wake up.
Time to break up, from the shake up.
Don't let em see you down,
Get dressed,
And put on make up.
I'm evolving.
Starving like Marvin.
Sky is still calling
My name ain't Jim Jones, but one day I'll be ballin'.

Will I give back?
No looking back.
Dashing that.
Getting older now; getting bigger, steady hungry trying to pick up the pieces.
Pledge of allegiance to the money now.
Now and forever.
Finesse, but I'm still not that clever.
One day I'll be; probably never.

And nowadays 22 is still declared young.
But that won't change me from growing, I won't settle for none.
Nowadays 22 can feel old or feel young.
With these 10 days left I know it's better to come.

With all the cards against us we gotta make it manage i swear to God i wish i cld mke yu harm proof what they dont understand its a bigger pic tht i cnt b taken out of ill nvr play yu like lebron vs jordan they say time is money but its not im broke so time all we got n yu cnt mke tht back so give me all yu got treat me like theirs no tomorrow....death over dishonour angel eyes short hair stay the same let the seasons change im willing to build noahs art known it cld b torn apart i aint got a image to uphold i keep the truth i been the truth  im a young simba in his youth. im wondering wat comes with being a better man put Tyson Ali  Mayweather in a ring &  they still cldnt knock my love 4 yu

Now i tried Tinder
as i tossed the caber and said timmmmberrrrr
for a while a guy of my style (ha ha!) will swipe to the left on Linda
...if your,re wondering why, her eyes bled Simba and i'm the only lion/**** King around here
but then after no connections for a bit i thought "this ap's pretty ****, why has no one hit on me? Do i look like ET?" Cancel the extra kettle.  It's judging by aesthetics and when you are bald and pathetic and want to take yourself out (mimic gun to head!) why would you put this face on a faux Take Me Out...leave the light on, cos mine's off, it's gone.
Wait a mo, a message, a flicker of flame!!!!  From Tinder!!!  I am Cinders and i'm going to the ball MOTHER *******!!!
I'm a Schizophrenic hypocrite

I miss the way
I layed
draped
across you
in your "cloud bed"
that night. You told me
about your stuffed Simba
toy and how you hid
him under your bed
so he would be close
to your heart.
Then you said,
"I want to keep you there, too"
for the same reason, I think.
And I told you,
"When I was little
I thought my
Mary Jane's
could turn me
into Cinderella."
And you didn't think
it was stupid.
I should have kept you.

A child's heart breaks
for the first time,
when Simba sees Mufusa die.
He learns to grow and face
          his past:
Fighting his demons
and falling in love.
Macbeth with lions.

Elder cocoons
Crysalis Hospice
Heaves pounding war drums
Fables of eternal bridge
Bingo and television
zombie horde lunch hour
Tennis ***** play race car
down halls tarred with lost children
Abandoned wither liver spot wrists
Silk wrinkles
Pull like neck folds lifted
newborn simba kittens
casted into this kingdom
scientists culture control

climate but not the yellow wall
It's too high for a fit cyborg
intravenous barbed wire
Cathader Penetrating
illusions of escapism
except the prison wealthy
classically conditioned

trading ice cream like cigarettes
trading blood diseases like ramen packets
There is no planned parenthood
in old folks homes
There is no distribution of free condoms
In a facility where they without medication
When you're about to win the lottery

His last day requested to bed Nurse Christine
Wheelchair ridden fumbling to open
A shaker of Mrs. DASH
I reach to help him open the spice.
Growling and Sadistic he festered:
"Let the little boy do what he can do."

I sat down in my chair.
he had his nurse ala mode.
no one will fund a ****** dispensary for old folks home.
they wouldn't use them.

She felt a warm, wet, oozy lick
A playful effort to wake her quick
She kissed her tiny friend, warm and furry
Embracing her wiry frame
The kitty, Simba being her name
Jumped out of bed in a scurry.

Playmates they were attached emotionally
Without each other, helpless and lonely
None could bear being away for long
Either feeling low was bad news
The other would soon catch the blues
Their bond was exceptionally strong.

Today, they played hide and go seek
Compelling her mom to finally shriek
To make her get done some chores
Reluctant to leave her game incomplete
As it meant parting with her friend sweet
Unwillingly she went outdoors.

She could not wait to meet the little fur ball
Her continuous purring would impress all
At home, instinct pointed at something being out of place
She saw her mother searching for something nervously
The woman would never misplace anything carelessly
Reality struck, Simba's basket was now just an empty space.

Tears streaming down her face the whole house she ransacked
After hours of searching the kitten still could not be tracked
They told the neighbors, they looked in the park
They asked children playing outside on the street
To get away, so many people, how could this little thing cheat?
Soon it started getting dark.


With coaxing and nudging she finally fell asleep.
In the dark under the blankets at least  she could weep
Sleep eluded her all night
She could only imagine her kitten, somewhere frightened
Her pulse racing, her senses heightened
How would the little one put up a fight?


At last, weary and sad she dozed away
Her friend however did not betray
Her trust as she got her loving wake up ritual
The cat was all along hiding indoors, continuing their game
Waiting for her to find and call out her name.
Their camaraderie and affection was indeed a beautiful visual

It was the thrill of throwing a towel around your shoulders and ruling over your Beanie Babies with a firm but gentle hand.
It was the jewels on your construction paper crown that told the world it was your special day.
It was the sweet taste of grapes when you pretended to be the ruler of Ancient Egypt.
It was following Harold and his crayon on their adventures under the scribbled moon.
It was the musk of ozone on the first night you saw lightning rattle the world.
It was the awe in your wide eyes as you watched countless wounded soldiers stand tall in the spotlight.

Yes, it is the symbol of noble blood, of utmost confidence and unparalleled dignity
But it is also the childhood fantasies that never really left us
And it is why, even though we know it’s the closest we’ll ever get to royalty
It is impossible to resist joining a young Simba in singing
Oh, I just can’t wait to be king.