The silence of it all

Socialism done wrongly is threatened by anything not like itself,  therefore suppressing freedom of thought.”

Some of my personal thoughts on war, socialism done wrongly(self interests), corporate medias and voting. 

In considering a title, I chose “the silence of it all” becuase thats where most of this begins, in the silence.  War never appears as war but as justification. Beneath the thick noise lay the truth in silence.   

War begins, not with skin, age, culture nor gender but with a ripple beneath the skin. 

War never shows itself as war. Never begins has a war but rather a justification. 

Not all wars carry a physical weapon but they all make noise. 

War comes for your mind and demands you think the same. War comes because it fears your freedom to believe and your freedom to not conform. 

War comes because it is threatened by anything not like itself.

Within the heart of socialism(done wrongly)lay a silent war, it demands thoughts like its own, anything outside of that is a conflict or a disruption to the better good. 

Socialism unjust, comes as a thief for wages.

Socialism unjust, suppresses the freedom to write for it must censor anything unlike its own language. 

Socialism unjust, will claim much can be free but you have to buy the free they are selling, the sale price lay within taxes and a debt graciously handed to the young. 

Voting should not be based on emotionalism but solely on the facts, we can deny a truth but the denial of a truth dose not change the truth. 

Corporate medias should not be choosing the president for us but rather speaking the facts unbiasedly, when they don’t, they do a great disservice to the voter. 

In conclusion, not all wars carry visible weapons but rather the silence of them. 

A thousand voices in a wave

I had a vision,

Thousands of children standing on man made shores,

Shores corrupt and ravenous burned their feet and yet they remained still. 

This is the 5th poem in my series. For anyone who reads this, thank you!!! 

A Thousand Voices in a Wave

The boy in the chair 

Words spoken silently from a chair, this boy a showing of how small ills grow into disturbing sicknesses.”   
A boy sits,

under torn skies,

surronded by streets of war and the ideology weapons embrace. 

Weapons of war fill a child’s eyes, ash rains down upon the boy, voices upon his skin speak and open on his skin wounds of war, on the chair he sits while ideologies pace up and down his streets, declaring, “no matter your age, color, gender or race, if you are not as I, your worth of life is not regarded.”

The boy sits in the chair and his image speaks of the reasons why war starts and it is never with a weapon but rather a thought, for you see, the boy in the chair didn’t go to bed on Tuesday and wake up on Wednesday sitting in a chair of war. The boy was put in the chair months prior for the chair had always been there and make no mistake, every country has a chair of war upon which every child sits. Even as I sit and write this, a chair is being set up by policies, ideologies, and emotionalism(to name a few). 

The boy in the chair is not there to be used, creating through this picture emotionalism, to promote agendas that justify policies. 

The boys sits in the chair of war, hoping we hear, we see and understand, he and this chair had always been there, waiting….

War dosent begin with a weapon but rather with a single thought, with a clever working of emotionalism and so in each country a child sits in a chair of war,

 waiting,

 for a weapon to wakes us. 

The writer and reader

The writer,

drowns in the words most fear to touch, for they know, words pleasing to the senses can never bring redemption. 

The writer,

lives twice through a single word, that most, cannot bare passing through but once. 

The writer, 

can undress and dress a corpse, with a single word, shattering unredeemed bodies, redeeming the stalest of hearts and awakening a soul succumbed to deep droze.  

The writer, 

dresses the mind in the languages of Poe and by night undresses with the utterances of Dickinson, knowing there are two words for ever moment. 

The writer,

can form from a word, pages of emotions that flow over the reader like a wave, stirring questions(if allowed), and bring one to a place of crowded loneliness, and frettings of the mind, that the reader may rediscover for themselves, the chaotic beauty of words, their majesty and  catch and release. For the writer knows, a single word catches the soul, bringing one to their knees, that by morning release may come.