I broke up with God
at our favorite eatery
in our favorite booth.

We settled into familiar creases
and asked for the usual.

My eyes lazily staring at fingers
stirring the straw around the ice cubes,
God cautiously spoke up:

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” (Thinking about the dormant phone
concealing behind the lock screen
the open Facebook tab
lingering over the relationship status section.)

They silently mused over the laconic reply,
til the waitress showed up with the food.

“Thank you!” God blurted with agonizing alacrity.

I received the sustenance lifelessly
and aimlessly poked at the burgers and fries.

The waitress eyed me with vague inquisition,
popping a bubble in the gum between
big teeth, refilled my water
and pirouetted hastily.

We ate in ostensible harmony,
the silence gripping like a chokehold,
the visible anxiety and subdued resolve
settling like a stifling blanket
over the child waking
from a nightmare—

Til we couldn’t breathe,
and I ripped back the covers
and looked into the eyes
of my tormentor.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

God, taken aback by the curt statement,
dropped their burger with shaking hands,
silently begging with wetting eyes
a greater explanation.

So I elaborated:

“It’s not you, it’s me.

For your immaculate conception
was created by human hands,

your adages rendered obsolete
by human words,

your purpose and plan for us
distorted by human nature—

I cannot hate myself any longer.

I cannot pretend to know you at all.

Who my mother and father say you are
is not who my friends think you are,
nor my teachers, my pastor,
the president, Stephen Hawking,
Muhammed, the KKK, Buddha,
the Westboro Baptist Church,
Walt Whitman, Derek Zanetti,
******,
and Billy Graham.

I am told you care who I bring into bed (and when),
and what movies I watch,
and what music I listen to—

I have not heard what you say about
child soldiers, the use of mosquitos,
or the increased destruction of the earth
which you proudly proclaimed your creation,
or the poverty and disease and famine
which has ridden so many of your children—”

God interjected,
“But you’re chosen!”

I snorted,

“You say I’m chosen
to spend eternity with you—
why me?

Why’d you pick me among
thousands, millions, billions?

I’ve been told I’m ‘chosen’
since birth
by others like me—

those with fair complexion,
blue eyes,
blonde hair,
a firm overt ****** attraction towards women,
and a great big house
with immaculate white fences
delineating their Jericho.

I’ve already fabricated eternity
here among the other ‘chosen’
and there is a world of suffering
right outside the fence
and I see them
through the window of my bedroom
every day.

Am I chosen,
if I don’t vote Republican

Am I chosen
if I am Pro-Choice

Am I chosen
if I cohabitate with my girlfriend

Am I chosen
if I never have kids

Am I chosen
if I say ‘Happy Holidays’

Am I chosen
if I don’t want public prayer in schools

Am I chosen
if I don’t want a Christian nation

Am I chosen
if I don’t repost you on my wall
or retweet your adages?

I’m tired
being the ubermensch,
for it has not brought me
happiness
and I blame you.

I will not ignore
the cries of the suffering
believing it is I
who is destined to live
in bliss.

I will not buy
Joel Osteen’s autobiography(ies).

I will not tithe
you my money
for a megachurch
when another homeless shelter
closes down.

I will not tell a woman
what to do with her body,
or a man
that he is a man
if they say they are not.

I am neither Jew nor Gentile,
and I will stand with
my brothers and sisters
of Faith and Faithlessness,

Gay and Straight,
Black and White,

and apart from these extremes
free from absolutes
the ambiguous, amorphous
nature of Humankind
which I praise.

There is much pain and suffering
in this world,
potentially preventable,
but hardly can I believe
it’s part of your plan
to save
me.

I will not be saved
if we are not
all saved—

not one will burn
for my divinity.

The gates will be open to all—
and perhaps you believe that too,
but I’ve gotten you all wrong
and that cannot change,
as long as there is
mortality, and
corruption, and
power, and
lust, and
greed.”

God whined, growing bellicose,

“It is through me that you will find eternity,
I am the one true god!
I am the God of your fallen ancestors,
it is because you have fallen short
that you need me!”

I replied, growing in confidence,

“We have all fallen short,
yes,
but we are also magnificent.

We have evolved,
we have created,
we have adapted,
we have survived.

We have built empires,
and we have destroyed them.

We have cured diseases,
and we have created them.

We have done much in your name.
We’ve done good,
and we’ve done evil—

And unfortunately it’s all about
who you ask.

Your name is a burden on the oppressed
and a weapon of the oppressor.

You are abusive, God.

You tell me you are jealous.

You tell me apart from you I will suffer for an eternity.

I’m scared to die, yet want to die,
because of you.

You have made life a waiting room
that is now my purgatory. It is

Hell On Earth.

So you see,
it’s not you,
it’s me—
a mere mortal
who has tried to put a face
to eternity
and it has left me
empty.

And also,
it’s me,
for I have learned to love me,
as I have expelled your self-loathing imbibition,
and the deleterious zeal
I have proclaimed
through ceaseless
trepidation
and self-flagellation—

I have learned to love me
by realizing I am not inherently evil,
that my body is not evil,
that my mind is not evil,
and, ultimately, that
there is no good
and there is no evil.

My body is beautiful,
my mind is beautiful,
this world is beautiful,
and we are destroying it
waiting for you to claim
us.

I leave you
in hopes to see you
again one day,

and perhaps you will look
different than I have
perceived or imagined,

and in fact
I certainly hope so.”

Just then the waitress strolled back up
with a servile smile:
“Dessert?”

“No, thank you,”
I smiled politely.

And with that,
I paid the check,
and took a to-go box—

walked out into the evening rain
to my car,
put on a secular song
that meant something real to me
and drove off
into the night—

feeling for the first time
free
and alive.

I push the revolving glass door
Shuffling almost reverently with it's turn
A pilgrim to the written word, I am entering
The church of human consciousness.
The greatest minds sit here with some
That came in through the back door of
Specialist interest or just plain bizarre.

Alphabetical order belies the years that separate
These authors, some rubbing shoulders with giants
Who have barely been alive long enough to tell
Of real experience, then there are those who have
Stood the test of time, decorating bookshelves
In homes that have never read them, they just
Fulfil their reputation as if by osmosis bringing
An intellectual vibe to the coffee table and
Into the very fabric of the space occupied.

They are all here hiding behind their spines
Luring you with interesting fonts, bright colours
Like jpegs on a contact sheet waiting judgement,
Wanting be taken down and become your big picture
"We have made it, our voices have been heard,
All it takes is imagination to release us within the mind
Your images our words, we can make a movie together."

But I have been spotted, "Whatcha looking at punk
Think you've got what it takes to sit with the likes of us,
Don't go reading me and plagiarizing my well worn
Extensively researched mumbo jumbo clap trap,
So you can call me one of your influences on your CV,
Using my name to make you seem intellectual
Look around, how many do you think didn't make it."

I have gazed too long into the abyss and the abyss
Has gazed back into me, how can I claim to have
Any more to say than the greatest minds on earth
And yet, with pure heart my trembling hand hovers
Over the letters of my qwerty keyboard, pressing
The shift key as if in defiance, identical words,
Just not necessarily with the same meaning.

my naked bees are stinging knees and never dream more kind
the honey, black... they lack the knack of natural acts. they pine.
they surly fume. they bark at doom and dangle chintz and fiend,
they serve a nerve as raw as words that pinch a finch’s wings.

my wherewithal, with all your spots, are not my dots; but sod.
by all accounts, it counts for naught...but sounds a lot like god.
the absent one. the ubermensch. the lint i sent you, cracked !
a dagger’s mind. a hellish hive of worse than curse. a laugh !

la mort, petit. du jour, for sure the purest night to bleak... the white !
the eye:; it seeks to sink at least a league beneath the widening gyre !
fie !  and thunder pun my plums
of glumful dungeons, one by none.
and glory wrack my sycophants.

and ransom damage done and done

This is the story of a young man who found his feet....
Turning around twisted corners among ancient street of cobblestones,
he felt his numb senses come alive
much like the way young girls come alive
in the aura of a subtle yet extravagant fragrance.

The call of the city was too wild to ignore
and the dastardly cries from empty streets gave strength
to his otherwise weary feet.
The tales of the midnight furies wandering skyline saturated
with giant pods and artificial gadgets
was as powerful as any other rumor of a technology
so wonderful that it will call for another great revolution.
The mall was rife with footfalls and giant screens
with amazing propositions
each promising an experience like never  before.

He is then saturated with experiences that a caveman
would have dreamed of only in his version of "heaven".
"Eternity in a grain of sand" is what the Poet said
in great eloquence but too many "eternal moments"
made him question the existence of an "afterlife".
He pondered "Maybe death makes sense now more than anything..
the dead do not need experience,
they are weary of that burden ****** upon the living."
He turned to visit the grave
but he remembered the words of the wise Philosopher
"Visit the dead in the morning
when the first rays of the Sun kiss the Earth
after she wakes up from her slumber."
He imagined the Night as the time where the Earth slumbered
and dreamt up solid vagaries.
The Night is always "Queer"
but then the Sun arrives with so much clarity
that but then the Neon lights are an intrusion
to this order trying to bring balance to man
caught up in an exchange too lofty for him to understand.

He looked into the night sky
and saw the great manmade light shining into the darkness psychoanalyzing the night and shaming her narrative.
The Neon light stands between light and darkness,
it is dark because plants do not respond
to it the way it does to the sun
but it definitely gives a clarity and a perspective
the Sun can never understand.

What does it mean to walk this city?
The gods hid among nature first,
in forests, rivers, mountains and the clouds
but we bumped into them everyday because of Prometheus's error !!
He suffers eternally with a grin
because he was the only Titan who destroyed the gods from within.

Then the gods hid in cities, farms,
vineyards, temples and the graves of the dead
but we sought them out through Monotheistic rites.
Then they said to themselves
"We are running out of spaces,
perhaps the time is now rife
when we take shelter in human language,
we can deceive mortal men that they have power over their language
but take shelter precisely where they boast complete dominance."

Then they lived among us hidden,
we tried to seek them but could never find them
till one day we found traces of their likeness
in the words we speak and now History is a war!
A war to take language from the gods and take control of History. Deconstruction gave us tactical advantage
and mathematics struck the final blow
and now the gods have run out of spaces
and they inhabit garbage mounds.

They know that that "wastelands" exist in human minds
and we now seek to saturate ourselves with experiences
that we have finally become weary
of this futile war till our machines took over.

They exist only to rid hunt down the gods
at all costs and render the Earth as she is.
We will no longer see traces of the gods
when we look upon the Night sky
but only unmediated objective truth!
Then shall the poets lament,
the kings of the Earth lose their ground,
the archer will shoot with no purpose,
the seducer will lose his cunning
and the skeptic will fall silent.
We try to invent new rituals
but we know that our only purpose here was to defeat the gods.
Nietzsche said that man is a bridge
between the ape and the ubermensch
but little did he know
that the ubermensch was the bridge between him and the Machine!
Here is the story of a young man
who found his feet and matter
was as dense as adamantium and as light as cotton candy....

I am the villain,
the coldhearted canyon
killer who cut
Atlas’ Achilles tendon
causing the sky to crumble
and crush the falsely humble.

I am rage working its way
from a red froth foaming
in the cold glowing bay,
choppy waters which
reflect star light
that is too far away
and already dead.

I am not the hero
of this narrative
because all that
I have to give
is destruction
in the form of
my careful criticism
of this corrupt system.
I smile, hoping
my wise words will
blasts this system’s foundation
and clear the clutter
to build something better.

I am the truth barer,
sunlight sharer
in a world
happy with its shadows.

I am a vicious striker and slicer,
mean bust mostly nicer
than I should be
as the bad guy of humanity.

We all want to be the hero
of our little fairytale,
but I know
better than to fool myself,
because if the genocidal politicians
the vile ******* preachers,
the violent sports stars,
the murderous soldiers,
and the greedy businessmen
are your definition
of the ubermensch
apex of the patriarchal
hierarchy….

Then to you as to them
I am anarchy
builder and destroyer
of abstract constructs
that control us
and the ultimate terrorist/freedom fighter
because I am a truth writer.

I'm from hate and discontent,
from words so caustic that they burn after 35, 40, 45, 50 years.
I'm from nowhere and everywhere,
I'm from nine schools and fourteen houses.

I'm from "You'll make new friends,"
and "Quit crying, we didn't live there that long."
To the KFC Christmas and "They're too old for a tree anyway."

I'm from slammed doors, and curse words and silent treatments.
I'm from high expectations, icy glares, straight A's, and disappointment.
I'm from 800 miles of claustrophobic silence in the family car and 18 years with no vacations.

AND

I'm from lazy days at the family farm
and hard-*** work a few years later.
I'm from rides on the tractor with Grandpa,
and watching the illegal sabong... with the sheriff.

I'm from Uncle Martin and Mary Lou,
and the tiny apartment with the swimming pool.
I'm from the mean man in number 9 screaming at us to be quiet
and Uncle Martin telling him to, "Shut the Hell Up!"

I'm from David and Richard, my cousins, my brothers
I'm from poison oak adventures at the creek
and countless days at the beach

AND

I'm from Gentile and Jew,
From Asian and White,
From Catholic and ****.

I'm from St. Patrick's, the old church.
I'm from stained glass and wooden kneelers,
incense, and Latin Mass.
I'm from Ego te absolvo and Dominus Vobiscum

I'm from tradition and sanctity,
dignity and peace.

I'm from Hellfire and Brimstone
Screaming, Bible pounding preachermen who are slain in the Spirit,
babble in tongues, and exhort the congregation to be "Washed in the Blood of the Lamb".

AND

I'm from love and loss,
and love again

I'm from Lisa, and Donna, and Carole,
the girls who were far too pretty to have been my friends (but were)
I'm from Jaki who wrote me letters letters every two days
and sometimes more,
and Laurie
and Kelly.

I'm from Cardinal and Gold
from Conquest and Traveler,
from the dorm and the Row.

I'm from 90,000 screaming idiots,
I'm from Greek Week and road trips,
and long nights in the reference section.
I'm from typewriters, card catalogs, and white out.

AND

I'm from gritty men and terrible places.
I'm from peace, and war, and peace, and war again.
And peace - with war thundering in the distance.

I'm from the cold wet ground on cold wet nights,
and I'm from blisters upon blisters; blood and water.

I'm from the Blacksheep, the Alphabots, and the Ranger Creed.
I'm from the M-249, the 203, and the A-2.
I'm from Colt, not Beretta; that's the M-1911,
and I'm proudly from jungle fatigues and black berets.

AND

I'm from a fateful encounter on a random night
an order of pizza and beer that would change our lives
Days together and weeks apart
Time didn't matter
She'd captured my heart.

I'm from loyalty and faith,
Trust and honor.
I'm from a small ceremony,
nothing to big or too fancy,
and groomsmen carrying guns, pagers, and foreign passports.

I'm from odd jobs and uncertainty and graduate school
I'm from UPS and PKP, and Summa *** Laude,
MISD, WM, and the birth of Anthony.

I'm from safety patrol and tug-of-war,
Accelerated math, now Maria's born.

I'm from the Blonde Mafia, the Bumblebees,
the Shopping Girls, and the Ubermensch.
From 14, and F, and back to 14, and 15.
Principals Emerson, Anthony, Blix, and Mellish.

AND

I'm from the Middle School
and teaching only math until
I'm teaching math and tech until
I'm teaching math and tech and study skills until
I'm teaching tech and study skills and more tech until
I'm teaching tech and study skills and media and Spanish until
I'm teaching tech, tech, tech, media, and Spanish with
Principals Miller and Budzius and Lucas and Stone

I'm from the animé girls and the theater crew
From the gamers and poets and dreamers
From the introverts and hackers, autistic kids and slackers
I'm from the kids who don't fit anywhere....
Neatly

(To be continued)

Ubermensch shares this impressive
position in The Rat's ultrafucking;                 with another important concept
of Nietzsche. There are many interpretations
of this fact.                Laurence Lampert points out that the eternal repetition
as an alternative to the Uber,                                   ****** as a serious effort.
This is partly due to the fact that even
Uber Mischa works as another global hope.
Ubermensch is in the future,                                            since Ubermenschen
does not have a historical form,
it still represents a kind of relentless redemption in the future.
Stanley Rosen, however,                                        points out that the doctrine
of eternal return is an esoteric curse,
which is found in Ubermen to save the idea
of ​​the responsibility of idealism. Not to end
with perfection, Nietzsche will be a prophet
of countless years in the past.             Others argue that if Ubermensh creates
a new value that is not infected by gravity
or the ascetic mind, it is a necessary step
to be ready to make an eternal parable of the same thing.

Prices include ****** and are the order of priority,
therefore, inseparable from approvals and discards.

However, I did not have the pleasure of pushing people to seek refuge
in other worlds and accept other world values.
Therefore, the superman seems to always
fail to create values ​​that do not share asceticism,
even though they are dedicated to all values.
The desire for eternal return is presented
as acceptance of low existence, recognizing
that it is still low, thus overcoming
the spirit of gravity or asceticism.

Others suggest that you must always
have the power of Ubermensch to repeat it.

In other words, Superman only has the power
to fully embrace all his previous lives, including
his faults and his evil deeds, ****** and, in fact,
return to his eternal life. For example, this energy
kills most of the Saranutra and most people can
not avoid other secular activities because they
are really sick and have no other choice: See 50
battle games. If the warrior is an idiot, the magic
crab's yeast has some resistance. • The influence of the son of Bruno AOS.
                                                        In fact, I hope it moves to the right
                                                        with the cherry button that
                                                        is unforgettable in the river.
                                                  Hit Argos, Agamemnon
and the collaborators
of the world,                         so that children love ******
and love their love.
I'm close;                        Make sure you serve the King of Saints,
not the masculine light: in hell,
they build their nest and the crazy female birds:
they are themselves horses. The *******
received a gift for her eldest daughter. Some
results for young people are not true.                      You can read it with food.
Invest in human resources.                               The city does not take a break.

You know the knife
Number of launches
Democracy and
The explanation of mickey
This is the true bone.
Today is a good person
Different Christian
With Cesare Borgia
With Alexander Niklist
Looks good ...
The proposal is simple.

"The army shouted,
arguing that they
were proud." Einstein's
boat did not hear
the beauty of the Italian
Renaissance and
the bad combination
that heard this idea.

I don't care much for titles or trophies
I've never been one to reminisce over
past accomplishments
I only want to destroy the spirit of
the man before me
I will only be satisfied with victory
when I feel his grit wither away
When his sense of self is lost
I will have found myself again
Nietzsche is smiling at me from his cave

Accentuate the positives!

One must cull one’s self from the herd!

Etch sublime visions
Obtained naked on the wilderness hilltop
In Earth’s stone,
Or write them on these sheets provided
By its mighty trees and
Resilient leaves.

Baste the naysayers
With Tony Robbins’ ladle
Full of succulent
Can-do verve!

Annihilate their gloom with
Bazookas of hope,
Uzis of alacrity,
Shotguns of perseverance,
And AK-47’s of love—

Live on the slopes of
Vesuvius—
Pitch tents in Tornado Alley
For vacation—
Go grocery shopping on the Serengeti,
And woo Amazons and Nubian warrior
Princesses.

Fear has no stronghold!
The end will not be the end!!
Eternal hard-on!!!

,;.;.;.;.;
spasms
.;.;.;.;.;
spasms
.;.;.;.;.;
spasms
-----------­----------------

---------------------------

divisions
creation­s
incantations

So where do we begin?
Well, of course, indeed, rather undeniably
there first comes the identification of a form
(existentialists label this essence)
then certainly some consummation of labour
under out dated regulations is carried out -
then perhaps some degree of manipulation
‘culturally, economically, politically, psychologically’
are some of the common ones to reference...
but then lastly - realisation and overcoming.
The discovery of some truth
in the illusion of this thing.
And finally there, in that vector of chaotic surfaces, that
change and ameliorate, painting life
into this picture to be hung in the Luve ,
emerges a new thing,
something entirely distinct and precise
and we ask the masses of peasants
“what shall we call it?”
and they say
“the ubermensch or some *******”
but don’t really care until they realise
it is invisible, and they cannot touch it
so it scares them into insomnia,
paralysis
and involuntary thoughts
like ‘is it real? god, enlighten me’
and most who have seen it
in full form
lie awake at night

rupturing like tissue paper,
into two soft scars
motioning towards something
in the uncertain wind,
absorbing everything fluid and free
and still of course rather insoluble,
and permeating.

eliminated from the team, refracted
from the equation, put in a bird
cage, flimsy construction
paper soul pressed against
the lips of a thousand blades

vibrating like soil
under the weight
of a nameless stampede

floating away, a distant
but fond memory,

tired of living,

exhausted from trying

let it come naturally...

breathing the sharpest
daggers, open arms for
cruel, sick jokes;

embrace the absurdity;

sleep upon nerves
shot to hell, welcome

the worst of thoughts;

like wicked flames
burning from a holy
candle;

a wick lead by temptation;
fueled by innocence

the tiniest speck
against the giant
wave of grain that approaches...

open eyes that see nothing at all...

but an accompanied mouth
to claim such things exist.

entirely at fault
the Ubermensch
within
will still find
a means
of spreading the blame
beyond
the limits of responsibility

even these words
pass the blame
onto something
that can be claimed
as being
beyond my control

so is it even
really
my fault
at all?

day ride, after night shift, runnin forgetting, and
always letting go, love is not enough, with a slave of their trade

y write with the spits on my face, and assume that you will understand
that,  months ago all end up, with out even star, vaya con dios, or wiTh the ala, and please let my ******* go.

after all the shame of the spits on my face, strong and short and smeling like a pig, you were right, i'm all of those and, c'est fini, after all
i'm just a game an easy game, relax live your life, and please let me tha **** ALONE, after all, to special and to sweet, is a good thing matte,

am mellow to the core like thoreau's autumnal sun, a lover, that for the girls how love creeps, still can't love and be loved , and it was all about that little creepy, shiit, blocking and destroying mi life, so he could feel like ubermensch, so vaya con dios, and please let me ******* go, dance with zeus or ala, or your little creepy ****, after all 7 months ago y let you go.

theres no rage or pain, just disappointment. this lover and this beast is to special, for you, to sweet and stinky and short, so please let me go, and vaya con dios, this is the end beautiful not me friend,
i'm friend with a little boy that is my  litle bro,

and the one how harm this little bro, is going to pay it all,
after all the pain after all the little rapes, after all the creep liking me as as y was sleep, after all, still you help him, and put me in danger, so shut a **** up, and,  just let me ******* go, this is a clear, adios, rad, the last two have one line for you this is all yousr kid, could y, shure.

i'm already gone, and i don't want you in my life, take mahomas hand and fly to the sun, i'm going alone, and love maybe knocks on my door, and
after all still i'm here saying to you, vaya con su dios,

My generation is sick
Rotting inside long before the expiration date
Walking around like the dead men they saw on TV
Looking for God
Between the lines of a ****** romance novel
With some protagonist who teaches them that your life only matters
If somebody loves you
And dies a martyr
Or in some silver haired, silver tongued figure
Spewing second-hand reassurances that their anger is justified
And their voices will be heard
And a return to traditional values is coming
An open palm in the air, while the other itches to drop the bomb
Or on a tiny screen injecting radiation sickness directly to their brains
Mesmerized by idols dancing like marionettes on vile strings
Spewing filth and mindless drivel
Taught that ignorance is trending
Taught to hate by the hollow blonde shell of some Ubermensch
Recording himself vomiting obscenities for their amusement
Looking for God
Everywhere except the ******* heavens
Where shooting stars and celestial bodies
Pass endlessly through their periphery
Ignored, leaving a generation of wishes unfufilled
Buried under glittering detritus
Rotting to be accepted
Rotting to be trendy
Rotting while their parents give them the world
And they can't be bothered to glance upwards
Squandering fortunes on popular hedonism
Awash in a narcissistic sea
Where the lowliest wretch can gain more disciples than Jesus Christ
A generation of men
Devolved to beasts
Who will pounce at the smallest hint of exposed flesh
And cry out injustice because the prey asked to be devoured
Who will equate chivalry with chemical imbalance
Tattooing false hearts on their sleeves
On their knees begging to be loved
& A generation of women
Content to be objectified
And content to objectify themselves
Hearts bleeding for the plights of the lowly
& beautifully, blissfully blind to their own
The harlots & the sinners
Projected larger than life into the subconscious of
Children with no larger ambition
To sacrifice themselves, and be reborn a cheap photo copy
Full of style and confidence, and devoid of essence
Angels that burn like neon lights
Extinguished quickly, to lie dark and dormant forever
Hell is full to bursting
With all the souls sold for social media
& a forged prescription for Adderall
The madmen are the brave ones
Howling at the sky
That none of this means anything
And none of it is okay
Howling for some ******* reason
Howling for some ******* peace
Howling because nothing else makes any ******* sense
Our society's ship is anchored
And still the current drags us back
Endlessly, and forward again
Repeating history
And our Captain is dead, we've murdered Him ourselves
And of his flesh we made a feast
Of praise and adoration
For the blind, the deaf, & the decaying
And there will be no bleeding hearts
And there will be no expanded minds
And there will be no saviors
And there will be no promised tomorrow
The once glorious future is a funeral pyre
Our ancestral utopia is a ruin
Spray pained red white & blue
Littered with the corpses of the ones who died believing
There's nowhere left to conquer
There's nowhere left to run
There's no room in this Hell
& There's no room in the next
Only the madmen remain
Howling at the sky
Asking God where the **** he's gone
And the heavens shall remain silent

I lay down my arms and I take up the sword
Spill my enemies' blood
With each peace treaty word
And a horde forged in flame
Of my metalcore gore
Counting bodies like sheep
I'm the ubermensch wolf
To both lion and mouse
I am venomous truth
And my frigid veins boil
Like seas that I spill
As volcanic eruptions
From chlorophyll quills
Porcupin' the punch
With a nuclear panic
A blast of the past
And a shot of satanic
As I put the cult
In this counterfeit culture
Of fake dollar bills
To an early sepulcher
Cruella de vils
They can keep their fur coats
And 12 karat divorces
I'll burn down their mansions
In wars of resources
As I share the forces
Of diamond forevers
Unbound by the chains
Of the ego it severs
I'll fight on forever
As one stoic man
Though together we'd rise
From divisions of land
And these failed system states
Of the union behind
Broken laws and disorders
Of less than divine
Than mortality's infinite
Knowledge design
But the key to the gates
Will be lost for all time
If the cost of salvation
Keeps robbing you blind
And eternity's borders
Are those of the mind

Don't let me be the kind of *******
Who hides behind the facade of fake morals
Blinded by the who's and what's of the society
To carefully navigate into the spectrum of likability
Murdering ideas
Shepherded by the popular beliefs that the self proclaimed "ubermensch" with values smaller than the faith of a mother consoling her dying child propagates
Don't let me be the kind of *******
Blindly seeing the disarray of colors and beliefs
Waving divisive flags of identity
While failing to identify the core of what makes us humans in the first place
Erasing the tiniest sketch of personality
To enjoy the recognition that comes with society's impeccably placed self serving values
Foolish enough to think that they're smarter than the rest
Smart enough to recognise the falacies that dont serve their interest
Don't let me be the kind of *******
Bayoneting the rights of others to exists
Carrying big guns
Compensating for the personality they lack
Their inability to break the circuit
Their brains programmed to applaud
The orange bleep on their screens that rule their lives
Their messiah
Don't let me be the kind of *******
Pretentiously answeing to a higher cause
While dismissing the cries that really need answering
Leading life one line at time
From a forged manuscript
Playing my part just right to be recognised at the pearly gates
While closing my doors to the here and now
To the damaged
To the rejects who dont see the white and gold
Or the the blue and black
But simply crave the warmth of the fabric
Of a touch, of a hug
Maybe a warm cup of humanity
Not the body or the blood of
A humanbeing just like the rest of us
We're all capable of miracles
Not a trick like walking on water
Bur changing the world one life at a time
Not as gods
But humans, in our truest forms
(Fort Worth, TX 12/02/2018)

My conscious persona
No longer exudes
Fragmentation of self
There is merely the one
And the love that eludes him

Eschewing his genius
His manic depression
His mind-bending realms
Of post-mortem reflection
For how could he teach them
His methods of madness
His ubermensch dead to the world
Phantom sadness

What he comes to know
Is no longer aware
Of the scent of her fear
There is only his cognizance
Naked and bearing

The weight of their hunger
The oceans of thirst
The suffering children
Enslaved upon birth
And for all of their innocence
He will endure
The injustice of time
As he rots to the core

Of his inner-most thoughts
In a prison of prose
His youth in revolt
Though trapped in decay
Like a withering rose

From the ashes of ego
Destruction of id
To reveal the creations
Of muses he hid
And for lost souls to serve
And his goddess divine
He embodies the light
Formlessly redefines

The objective of life
Subject to debate
But realizing the truth
Is by his hand made free
To determine the fate

Of his own destiny

Bruised
but didn't hurt

fractured
but not broken

down
but not out

failed
but didn't walk away

disliked
but didn't hurt the pride

rejected
but still self-accepted

oppressed
but resurrected

hated
but love wasn't robbed

shaken
but remained constant

tested
but prevailed

dishonoured
but still conquered