The calender reads 2016
But its feels more like 1984
Have you heard the crying
The American dream
Lying dying in the streets
While big brother
Is strapping blinders
On our heads
And shackles to
Our hands and feet
Were being lined up
By the rows
Willing prisoners
Of the slave power
Empire of minimum wage
Shuttling our children
Off to the animal farm
Market of big business
And big lies
***** water mixed
In with the rotting
Apples of the
New American pie
The sugar isn't sweet
To the starving
In the street
While trash cans
Over flow in the back lots
Of the super market
Super chains
Of the slave power
Empire of criminal rage
And its the cold dark waters
Of nuclear waste
Soaking the pages of the calender
That reads
2016
In these days that feel like
1984
No kindness or compassion
For hands shaking tin cups
Needing just a little change
Just a little shelter
From their sad weather lifes
Living on the cold ground
Below our overpass ways
No shelter and no change
No compassion and no kindness
In the fist and pockets
Of the slave power
Empire of ignorant ways
Bullets, bombs and hate
Harvesting fresh blood
For the ink
To print the pages of the calender
That reads
2016
As politicians write us back
Into the pages of the days of
1984

My back is facing the window.  
I have to place my right arm on the chair’s back,
twisting my stomach and wrapping
my legs around the chair’s own just to
have a
peek.  
The fog makes the parking lot look
mysterious and clouded.  
Dreary.  
Moss growing on breaking bark and
concrete is accentuated and has the appearance of
flowers,
blooming new scales every once in
awhile.  
The grass is muddy with patches of leftover snow, clinging to
life before spring can give an
end to their short-lived adventure from
sky
      to
         Earth.  
The snow’s once diamond-like display
is now riddled with
pollution and
mud.  It
browns.  A decomposing tree stump
sits alone in the middle
of it all,
softening at the edges, accompanied by
leftover leaves from the previous fall.  They blend with
the wood.  
Light heavily filtered through clouds darkens each
color I can land my eyes on,
but illuminates the Earth nonetheless.  
I untwist myself, seated comfortably now in
my green plush chair.  
I sink into it.  My shoulders settle
onto my body.  A heavy sigh
b
u
  b
   b
    l
     e
      s
out of my throat.  
I’m done
now.  
Until tomorrow...maybe I will find
the strength to contort myself to the
left,
                                  instead
                                   of the
                                                                           right.

I wish life could be a breeze.  
Like a bird’s flight, sunny, wind whistling
through the bird’s feathers, just soaring.  
Imagine how the actual bird feels,
without a care on its mind.  
Just flying through puffs of clouds,
absorbing the yellow rays…

Until the time passes,  
the storm comes, and
rips the bird apart.

What is reality?
I am a flower;
a beautiful, white-lipped daisy
Just unfurled into the world.
No rips, no tears.  Not yet.
People stroke my velvety petals carefully and cautiously,
Careful not to break me.  
Don't break me.
CRUSH ME.
I will just reform into a
****** white velvet mess in the dirt of stars.

A girl, probably an
older teenager, stares at
the floor intently. Her ***** blonde hair is
wrapped into a messy bun, strands of
hair falling to her shoulders and
near her neck. She sits with
posture, shoulders back and neck tall,
seeming like a grown woman.  
Her cotton-colored shirt has thin
sleeves, showing her arms and
collarbone.  Her pencil skirt falls to the
middle of her thighs, a little too short
in my opinion. The skirt is embroidered with
small flowers out of
lace, glowing with royal blue
fabric. Her small diamond earrings and
miniscule jewelry
compliments her.  She seems
stressed,
nervous, as she
bites her lip and
squints her eyes staring
at the TV.  I hear the name,
Shelby,
and her head
lifts.

Her hair was over her eyes
And her arms were always folded.
Large enough for an entire table, it seemed,
Her aura surrounding her a gentle poison.

It’s not that she was bullied,
It’s just that nobody talked to her.
And once someone would try,
She’d never have the strength to answer.

But everyone has their secret talents.
Hers was breathtaking.
And one day, in the school choir,
She knew these notes were what she was seeking.

Her hand quivered above everyone’s heads
And the director’s eyes landed on her.
His fingertip hit the starting note,
And she spoke, in a quivering croak,
“Whenever you are ready, sir.”

Her vocal chords whispered, vibrated, stretched
Until her voice was gone.
She made the floorboards shake
And made this song
her song.

His hands pounded the ivory
As her heart thumped to his beat.
His mind was turning,
Her stomach was churning.
She didn’t know what to make of his shown teeth.

And he shook his head no,
Because she was too quiet.
He spoke, “There are those who can sing,
But those who will break the silence.”

Her heart sank through her chest
And melted into the floorboards.
She retreated back into her hole once again,
And sang
No
More.