These words are our slaves. They’re birthed from the mouth,
only to fade in the ear. Be it whisper or be it roar they wilt
but not die.
These words are like wood and nails.
They give us
in both head and in heart.
Not unlike the little rope the kindergarteners hold,
that focuses a wondering eye..
These words are logical. Coherent as Candy Land.
Indiscriminately bestowing an ocean of wisdom anyone can misuse.
These words can also be mispeld, imedietely extrakting any significanse.
These words are strong and can enrage.
They can draw tears. And just as quickly
These words have started revolutions.
They are fear, lust, hate, anguish, and hope-all at the same time.
But words, they are as dead as dimes,
even when put in thoughtful rhyme.
So words will come and words will go,
but the idea shall NEVER cease to glow.
Rant in a Minor Key
When all of our monuments topple over, we shall go blind. We will free ourselves from all doubt and conceal conscience, we will pull the eyes from their respective holes and offer them to the heavens, and we will, indefinitely, fall. We turn ourselves to a cold clay, then hand ourselves over to a rapist sculpture. He will, in turn, round off our minds and mold our hearts flat, creating an entity with lack-luster logic and susceptible sentiment; as desensitized as steel… and just as thick. Little by little, we’ll learn to sculpt ourselves to fit this predestined paradigm. Like a sheep-dog training the sheep to be their own sheep-sheep. Then we will walk (single-file) down the gullet of the beast, and when we arrive at the stomach, we play in the waters. We will burn, but wonder not why.
Let us, instead, turn these shields to swords and construct our own monuments. Monuments that stand held up not by fear, but by a healthy rage. Monuments that invade the sky for miles, and yet are built not from bricks, stones, or cement, but from our fundamental ideals and aspirations. And, if in this quest we find that ignorance, in fact, be bliss, then let us cut off our lips, so as to avoid smiling.