The music notes float over to my ears.
The Christmas tree flickers out of focus as I write, as I recall
the chaos in a world that moves quicker than ever
on the other side of the window behind me.
There lies the anger.
So. Much. Anger.
Capitalized by those who know what fear becomes.
Taken in by those who don’t.
They live among us, uniformly uninformed, almost proud of it.
But the anger. Why does it exist?
Accept. Accept. Accept.
Except to accept, for some, is too painful, confusing, anger-worthy.
Will we learn? Will we learn we must always learn?
It is, by far, the only way to live, to progress.
In a world where only God can judge, we champion the art.
It is easier to include, to think outside the box.
It’s easier to love, to laugh, to…
Accept. Accept. Accept.
We are all the same,
no matter where the sky blooms.
Crayons create the same drawings,
no matter the restaurant.
Clothes still keep us warm,
no matter the store.
We all arrived from the same atom,
the structure of which will never break.
Food is still the same,
no matter the price.
A long walk is still the same,
no matter the shoes.
We are all the same,
seeking want over need.
A reckless desire to push
through a seemingly endless crowd
without ever a thought to look back
and pick up those we knock down.
Exploration is important
for those who don’t succeed
in mixing with other creeds,
reproducing with other breeds.
Vision is always blanked
when limited to things
you only want to see,
such carelessness that breathes.
Killing those you’ll never meet,
or talk to over tea,
when we send them overseas
without a manual for peace.
Telling our kids that
playground fighting is obscene,
you should act better, yes indeed,
now do some homework, now go read.
But the lies they print on pages
for their youngster eyes to see
don’t tell them of the pain
of those you forced to bleed.
Instead we choose to mislead,
without teaching them to think,
and by the time they wear their special robe,
you’ve gone on to succeed.
This can’t be what they taught
inside the capital of Greece.
A focused life ain’t focused
if it’s focused on money.
So kill the greed,
hatred release,
burn all thoughts preconceived,
for peace and harmony.
Nine years later.
An empty nation to return to.
Propaganda Christmas
holds hopes of the future.
Digital camouflage
only fools the fearful.
They’ve no concept of
time or reality.
God, this can’t be.
This is what He wanted?
Their prayers for peace
conflict the start of conflict.
Wouldn’t He want your child safe?
Teach your son to hold his tongue
on the playground,
but fire your gun on the war ground.
They don’t know much better,
but honey, ignorance ain’t bliss.
Your poison words
spew spawn off your lips.
People listen,
absorb your thoughts,
and spread them
like cancer.
Cowardly apologetic.
I don’t want to hear it.
It was just meant to be funny,
I am told.
I move on to take your thoughts,
burn down your houses,
to start over once again.
We don’t need your kind.
Under this hot light,
it’s my only view
to the notes I love to play.
I sweat for you.
But the sweat runs down faster on the fast food worker
cleaning the sidewalk.
His last duty of the day, as his young son watches,
because there’s no one to watch him,
but he doesn’t mind or know.
23:00.
I’ve got something up my sleeve for you,
just wait.
I’ll get my way.
Things will change.
He’s spending time with his father,
who he loves more than life.
He’s working for something better,
something more for his son.
23:00 on a Saturday.
I’ve got something up my sleeve for you,
just wait.
I’ll get my way.
Things will change.
When will we match quality with logic?
What do they see when they wake up?
Where will they receive a meal tonight?
I wish they knew.
60 and a paperboy.
35 with three jobs.
20 and branded illegal.
15 and pregnant.
8 and starved.
When will we lower our weapons?
When we learn to love.
I would love to think that it doesn’t mean anything
that our dish soap is made by some company I’ve never heard of,
but it does.
I would love to think that it doesn’t mean anything
that my mom has to fill the shampoo bottle with water,
but it does.
I would like to think my dad not working is just
a sign of the times,
but it’s not.
Sports car in the garage,
but only cereal to eat.
Digital cable, flat screen TV,
but no milk to drink.
College tuitions, hundreds in text books,
no gas to get there.
Being a middle-class citizen with a grip on what once was,
a reality is shared.
A dirty little shit,
Full of the scum of the Earth.
Where the protectors attack you
And the heroes save only your money.
A Texas town with an Oklahoma name.
Caddo, they tell me, is far too spiritual for them, too intelligent, too cultured.
Where do you turn when your authority robs you?
Going 36 might ruin your life.
They think they are walking justice.
Take some of your confiscations, relax.
Not the money stupid, the drugs.
The ones you don’t have.
The ones you look for.
Four square miles of the scum of the Earth.
Scum of the Earth!
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