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12:53 AMSitting at desk, lounging in the chair...
Semi sleepy, feeling... the flow of things. The rhythm of the white noise of the computer and its gears and parts whirring warmly...
The television as background noise in the living room... sounds like an old movie.
Leg feels like its falling asleep. I move it instinctively.
Overhead light is off. Lamp is on. Not bright yellow light- soft white light. Long lamp. Unusual shape. Dusty on top.
I glance around... memorabilia from childhood scattered about... statues of Batman, old cartoons, old major league baseball banner hanging on wall-- "Baseball Fever!", it says...
Face feeling scruffy. Ran out of razors a couple of days ago. Haven't shaved.
Car hasn't been working for 3 days. Trapped in here... feeling tired...
The World I Built From DarknesThe world I built from darkness
Isn't dark at all
It is a world of perfection
Where every mother is just a mother, every father just a father,
And every son and daughter is a great child
Where there is no fanaticism, hatred, greed, or whore mongering
Just peace, freedom, and true liberty
In the world I built from darkness, there is silence
But only when and where you want it
There is no confusion, only clarity
Emotions do not exist, but rather, rationality
The world I build from darkness, simply
Does not exist
Poor PatThere once was a man called Pat,
Who was rather fat.
He had a cat,
And it slept on the mat,
But died because
Pat had not bought GabriaXorp's latest product, "CatSaver" (© 20&&) which resulted in the cat's untimely death. Don't be like Pat. Save your cat. Buy GabriaXorp's latest pet-orientated resurrection machine, "Cat Saver". It is completely safe!*
*The cybernetic supplements used in the ressurection process may malfunction and result in the cat's eventual evolution into a pyramid-headed three eyed god occurring a lot faster than your feeble human mind can cope with.
Steal their voices
In this dead
City you rule
With unfair laws.
Living on the floor
Begging for food
We only received
An empty dish.
Smiling you are
In our misery
You bring corruption
To all that you
We need someone
To free us from you
But your evilness
Will hide the sun.
I call it passion. My mother brings me a soother, incased in a miniscule pearl pink circle.
As she walks into my room she hears a few verses of the spoken poetry titled "My thighs":
Sheepishly she asks me to refrain from watching anything that may cause' disturbance to my character.
Spark me off because for her and for many my body is constantly dripping, buttery with gasoline.
A supposed 'defect' that has caused many to label me as "Bitch" because unlike many ladylike girls I don't zip my lips.
In fact any jagged zipper teeth that may protrude from my plump lips have rusted, the zipper itself is broken.
She doesn't understand why I rage against subjects that shouldn't bother my ideal, pubescent mind.
To stop calling my brother "homophobic" because the word faggot rolls down from the tip of his tongue
with stomach-tightening ease.
(but she doesn't tell him to be quiet).
When I tell her I am a feminist she tells me to do my re
The pen is mightier...You may have every firearm in the world.
With every bullet carved and flags unfurled.
But It is by words that true fights are made.
It is by the pen that new stones are laid.
You may wield a sword sharpest of blade.
With daggers many and soldiers stayed.
But it is by the words read that worlds are torn
It is by ink and quill that revolutions are born.
You may kill and ravage the land.
Steal from the many to keep in your hand.
But by the writer's craft you shall be forgotten.
With treasures forfeit and powers fallen.
Never doubt the power of the writer's craft.
For it is by our hands that the world is draft.
Should you forget this simple truth.
The world will rot by ignorant youth.
Remember this simple cord:
The pen is mightier than the sword.
Algorithm - *For GazaThe world ends where the world begins
Infinite loop of insanity
Moment is the hope
And yet go back to one
1492 SUGAR DADDYColumbus is famous because
he thought the earth was smaller
than Venus, and he didn’t know
that America existed,
and after he found it, he still thought
it was Cippangu, off the coast of Cathay.
Father of Our Times!
History’s Great Dumbass!
The ResistanceConfined their eyes
To the darkest place
A world where
The justice has died.
Has been declined
And the screams
Are just wind.
Change the history
They won’t have
To lead us
We will burn
Around the world
Smother the law
With your protest
Create a new age.
The stolen freedom
Replaced with fear.
You can pull
Down the fate
Soon the sun
Certain PeopleCertain People
wonder why I get so passionate
about things like
yet those same people want to call
certain American programs akin to communism,
don't they know the difference
between communism and socialism?
didn't Jesus go out of his way to help
the poor, the sick, the handicapped?
didn't Jesus say
help your brother as if he
were your own family?
where's the compassion in this world today?
where's the kindness that's needed?
where's the love that's wanted?
where's the wisdom that Jesus taught?
and where's the common sense that we need within our lives?
does someone need to show that reflection
of what we are,,.
instead of what we pretend to be?
or does the truth need to slap us in the face
to make us realize that we're only wearing masks
within the real world
and think about
what's really needed
Glorify the ProfaneSet it up as "art," parade it proudly.
Make your campaign to remove it's "stigma."
Take your shame and replace it with pride.
But don't blame me when they mock you in the streets.
Take the disgusting, pretend it's beautiful,
Dance around your perverse cardboard kingdom.
Force us all to accept your twisted lies,
All in the "truth" of your mocking "tolerance."
Throw your vulgarities across the wall,
Shout your obscenities at the top of your lungs.
Be awful, and suppress anyone who disagrees.
After all, you fight for freedom - to be the oppressors.
Write your gibberish and call it poetry.
Pen your drudgery and say it's a masterpiece.
Give me the old art, the old poets, the old writers.
Deliver me from the founts of depravity.
Don't let beauty or art inspire what you make,
Follow your slavers - decadence, perversity, hedonism
Beauty and truth shine brighter than your corruption.
Quick, smother the truth, and no one will find it!
Don't call what you make art, or poetry.
Take care in your wo
MassiveSitting in the dimly lit den, I hear
The static of the television
And the rambling and muttering of a talk show host on the air
I hear that audience laughing at Conan O'Brien late at night
And the ranting of an old minister's broadcast
And I hear the click of the remote grasped firmly in my palm
And my heart thrashing about in my chest, as if to get get free from it's captor
And the forced words of a reporter crying tears in front of the camera
And the stern voice of a President, bearing a grim visage, saying that there is nothing to fear
Sitting in my den, I hear the sirens beckoning, and the gears of war slowly beginning to grind
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