Becoming puppets 

Americas system


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

become like 

think like 

the pen must write of their willed agendas

desires of the lower nature 

to control 

through social media 


words white washed for 



approval of the system


so now I see what it means 

to become 

approved of the white system

demanding conformity.



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



self righteous 

demi gods


that see us as animals needing order

feeding us from their 

tables of controlled chaos

foods of division 

offered to those for sale.


Lead skies 

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.

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.