in years past
shaken hands with the devil,
i will not close the eyes that see
the mind that knows
the soul that feels
the voice that speaks
the forming of kings and queens
to whom you must submit
the pen must write of their willed agendas
desires of the lower nature
through social media
words white washed for
approval of the system
so now I see what it means
approved of the white system
must sell parts of myself
to write of stories filled with hope
while walls are falling,
words for the left or right wing
so now I must
in a country claiming freedoms, choose?
Do I not have the right to refuse to blindly follow the political circus?
Do I not have the right to speak against both?
Both parties are
that see us as animals needing order
feeding us from their
tables of controlled chaos
foods of division
offered to those for sale.
To keep the illusion of liberty alivemen and women must stay
at war with each other.
“Invaders hang from the sky above, chasing away my sun, mornings and child. From lead skies I come, wrapped in the arms of my enemy.” -beth
I had the opportunity to speak with a refugee,
she had come from lead skies,
her land torn from war, and an uprising of terrorist.
Writing this prose had taken me some time. Insights to war that have changed me and caused me to question my own understandings of war and wars complexities. My views on war have been pale and short sighted until I met her. She said this to me and I’ll never forget it, stills rings through me. “I have come to be wrapped in the arms of my hidden enemy but of this I dare not speak.”
For those interested the link below will bring you to the prose. For some this maybe triggering.
I hope that I have given her words life and her voice a platform.
Thank you to all who read this.
Humanities greatest threat?
Humanity itself… -Beth
A novel of ancient,
explores my invisible world of weightless fantasies,
romancing the untouched stories inside of me.
Write words you fear the most,
Words that hurt,
Words of madness and stained rhymes.
Write about you, so others can feel the book inside themselves.
drowns in the words most fear to touch, for they know, words pleasing to the senses can never bring redemption.
lives twice through a single word, that most, cannot bare passing through but once.
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.
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.
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.