In the End.

Hide in a haze
inside an armor of noise,
cool, draped
in the shadow of a culture

doomed
to self-destruction,
just taking
their precious time

in this process
of toppling
over themselves.

Take advantage of this window
of leisure, heights
that bring you back
to face your hells:

the end is coming
and so are they.

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Outer Space.

Gravitation
towards one another,
as is natural
among a populace sprinkled

with old, lost souls,
each a fish out of water,
square pegs
thrust into a swiss cheese
world, aching

as they try to file themselves down,
smooth their edges,
fit in, mark
all four corners

of their newfound territory
as they burrow,
so snug and secure in their
little place

where they can
feel safe and settled despite
that lingering
awareness that something is out of place,
that it is all about to break:

your four walls,
the floor from under you,
and your ceiling
of a sky,

erotically dancing,
stripping away
as you bathe

in the infinite beauty
and eternal ecstasy
of outer space.

Self-Awareness, Empathy, and Reason.

Selling yourself short.

Buying the lie
held up by the tripod
of tradition,
popularity and faith.

Equating love with fear.

Finding meaning
in your suffering
through twisted fables.

Grow within.
Embrace the path
of self-awareness,
empathy, and reason.

Find yourself.
The only true path.
Transforming in the light of awareness,
creating yourself in the process…

Release the beast
from your dark dungeon
and tame it.

Give your demons
a walk and learn the ways
of the world through their eyes,
comprehend their reasoning.

Go the way
of catharsis and alchemy.

Exposure
provides a mirror
for that which resides
within, hiding in the dark,

living in the gutter,
thriving in the shadows
that enshroud
your days:

feedback
permitting
adjustment.

Evolve or Die.

Another nail forged
by passion
impaling the coffin,
hammered in
by thundering fists.

I don’t mind the blood.
This relentless
storm of sweat,
intense emotion
and tears

will dilute it,
and the scars? They mark
a moment: tattoos
of a bygone age:

bookmarks
for mind-files.

And I need to remember.
I must remember.

Never feel this way.
Never let
yourself slip back
into this place.

Just evolve.
Evolve or die again.

You can never
run and hide,
at least not once
you are in there,

and fuck them all:
you are more than this.
You need not be
a part of this.

You can rise
above it, respect
their choices but draw
your own goddamned
line for once.

Not this.
Anywhere but here.
Never again.

Never feel powerless.
Never let yourself look up
to them, craning
your neck
so far

that you’re stuck
there, no hope
of seeing,

much less saving
yourself.

Of Accusation and Actuality.

Why now?
Before, no one
would listen,
she said, or that was at least
the fear. Now, once one

and then another
speaks up, speaks out,
there is safety
in numbers: community.

Diminishing fear
in bringing the perpetrators
to justice, as the pressure point
is impacted

and this unofficial coverup
unravels, truth dances
like fire

before the all-seeing eye:
someone finally kicked
the coffee table, and down
went their precious
house of cards…

and three cheers
for justice,
but it presents a bandwagon
and stretching definitions
for those that seek

a place in the game, addicted
to spotlight
and the immediacy

of the emotional, reactionary, social
jury, judge, and executioner
that is the herd

as we have evidently decided
that accusation
equates with reality —

long gone: innocent
until proven guilty —

and I fear
for us all
where this is going…

Oroborus Ostrich.

When a particular person is a self-serving, hypocritical, deceitful authoritarian devoid of empathy and a large group of people — not just the typical core of sycophants — seem to not only be entirely blind to the fact but get all moist in the loins over the prospect of that narcissistic douche-bag gaining more power, yes, I tend to get enraged and yes, vile words erupt out if my filthy mouth and, yes, whatever meager amount of faith I’ve managed to salvage in my species suffers a fatal blow, so don’t exacerbate the fucking maelstrom of rage pushing at the boundaries of my skin by asking me, “I don’t see what your problem with her is.”

Stop playing oroborus ostrich and pull your head out of your ass. That might help.

In the meantime, shut up, spare me, and just walk the fuck away.

Cherries on the Bridge.

When you’re so far
behind their schedule,
but their world
is collapsing anyway… 

When all the hope
you’d nurtured has died,
raged in fire
and blown away

into a fog of ash
traversing the killing fields,
as they’ll surely be known one day.

When all blood is spilled
like milk, you need not shed
a tear, as implied.

What’s done
is done, and no:

it isn’t always,
or even often,
just “what it is,”
but what it was,

and if the fucking buck
doesn’t stop
right here than it may
very well always be,
and that’s so
fucking unacceptable,

so cherrypick.

Target who, what. Extract.
Then burn the bridge
between you and history.