Marxist Thinking RevisionRevolution!The banner for,The Proletariat of my ambition,Subjugated,Beneath the bootheelOf my Bourgeois apathy.Salivating with determination,Fierce, savage, thundering;Across the steppes of my mindWaving flags of redOver trampled, burnt fieldsCasualties of revolutionTriumphant shoutsOver the burning white flagOf status and classA phoenix dawnAcross an infant stateUnited from the ashes.
The Bells of St. Paul's RevisionThe mourning bell tollsAcross the bricks and shoalsOf London, oldPast pubs and roads where, many stories toldThe city cold and still, left to mournA hero, once bornNow laid to rest,On his nation's requestRange Rovers of blackShouldering this armored caskDraped by the Union JackTo inter this son, named SlackBelow the titanic spireBefore the funeral pyreFrom this once great empire,That has fallen in mire.
The American Dream RevisionHeading full long, across the tarmac expanseSlender strip of black, strecthing into empty vastnessThe start of this journey, across one nationSearching for its heart, and its soulRolling through fields as far as the eye can see, under the gentle breezeClothed in green, as the money roll.Caught by the tumultuous city, gilded in light and sparkling distractionFounded on broken backs and splintered factions.Speeding through small towns crammed with charm and the musings of SteinbeckLeft to rot, without gold or lead, upon piles of the long forgotten dead.Skirting crashing waves of cold, the warm wind blowsBringing garbage, oil, and evermore; ashore.Stopped before steps of white marble, pure and justMired in bureaucratic bustResting amongst plots of final rest, tranquil and cleanCosting the legacy to be left, and a family bereft.The end of researching and explorationInto the deep seated heart, of this fine nation.
Love Song in Drop D RevisionAn old guitar,Hanging on the wall,Collecting dust.Catching my eye.Battered body,Worn neck,Dull frets.Paint, far gone from luster.Walnut stained with oilFrom one setOf unskilled fingersAfter another.This old guitarPassed from personTo person, butWithout glory or fame.Handed off for,The same old reason:"Out of tuneNo matter what I do."Old strings, pulled throughReaching out, into stagnant airBeconing,As aged fingers of the beggarThe sound hole peeringPick guard, as a tearStill, it weepsSilent, it speaksI take this old guitarThat has been stoic witness for too longAnd left, battered and wornStriking one chordThe beaten strings singA sad, minor tuneA ballad, pleading..."Will you play? This song, without E?"
Marxist ThinkingRevolution, the policy that is neededThe Proletariat of ambitionunder the boot heelof Bourgeois apathyA slash and burn,Scortched earth of RedA new stateBorn of ambitionWorking for success.
Love Song in Drop DAn old guitar,Hanging on the wall,Collecting dust.Catching my eye.Battered body,Worn neck,Dull frets.Paint, far gone from luster.Walnut stained with oilFrom one setOf unskilled fingersAfter another.This old guitarPassed from personTo person, butWithout glory or fame.Handed off for,The same old reason:"Out of tuneNo matter what I do."I see this stained bodyEvery crack catching the afternoon lightDust, hanging in space.Silence holding my breath.Fighting my instincts, I breathe"May I see?"Large arms unfold accompanied by a nodFrom the man behind the counterHe grasps the neck, gingerlyShocking, from his size and strength.Dust cascades in thin whisps, down,As the battered body descendes from its gallows.He sets it down,Conscious of its age and wearStill, it restsSilent, it speaksI take this old guitarThat has been stoic witness for too longAnd left, battered and wornStriking one chordThe beaten strings singA sad, minor tuneA ballad, pleading..."Wil
The American DreamRolling fields as far as the eye can see, under the gentle breezeClothed in green, as the money roll.The tumultuous city, gilded in light and sparkling distractionFounded on broken backs and splintered factions.Small towns crammed with charm and the musings of SteinbeckLeft to rot, without gold or lead, upon piles of the long forgotten dead.The crashing waves of cold, the warm wind blowsBringing garbage, oil, and evermore; ashore.Steps of white marble, pure and justMired in bureaucratic bustPlots of final rest, tranquil and cleanCosting the legacy to be left, and a family bereft.
Jazz NightThe Big Easy swaysLeft to rightLeft to rightIn flourish of refinedDecadenceLeft to rightLeft to rightAlong the Mississippi's mightLight flicking like flameAs bodies pass by the panesRaucous bedlamTo the tune of bourbonPlay on, play onMan, play onDance madam, danceTo that whiskey bluesDance madam, danceBoth of you take a bowIn the light of the rum-fired skyLeft to rightNew Orleans swingsBy the shores of lake PonchatrainShe writhesLike the madam in the windowTo the golden sheen, whiskey bluesThe slow moon shinesAs the songs lieLike the sun at high noonA French Quarter tuneBelow that rum-fired skyDrifting, to the pinesOf that whiskey blues
A Tree of BlackBranches, lashing outClawing, as talons and FangsRending with shadowBlack, writhing plagueScarring this sanguine skyIn pure defiance,Fighting the white lady's mailed fistResisting her course'Till the last breath.
PastRevoke your “was”–Consign me not to “had” and “did”But rather “does.”I contain the infinite–”Contain,” not “contained”–And speak, soak, suffer, sitIn tongues newly-born that strainAfter mine and sense that my“Lives,” “breathes,” “dies,” “loves”Expand into multitudes greater than“Was.”
How to Live in 2015Be born. That’s the easy part.Beg for new toys or take someone else’s.It doesn’t matter. Being selfish as a child is normal.Being selfish as an adult is normal. Get dirty. Stop taking everythingso seriously. You’re going to die.Don’t worry, everybody does it.Don’t fall in love, love is not a holeto fall into. Run into love, headfirst.Bite your tongue untilyou can taste the word no.Give away your secrets under a pseudonymfor someone else to sell.Chop off your arms and legs to pay for college,realize tuition rates doubled.Get a degree. Find a job. Hate your job.Find a vice. Keep it closer than your breath.Find God in an alleyway.Lose God like a set of keys. Die and be reborn as a memory.Die and be reborn as an afterthought.Die and be forgotten.Repeat.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
Forgotten HallsAn ancient, sprawling maze to me,Familiar as I grew;It housed the rise of manyAnd saw the doom of few.Never did I stop to thinkOf those that came before;All I saw was my own path,My own tracks on the floor.And now I see it once againIts age making it new,Strangers faces alienThe air of nineties, too.I stood there when they tore it down,Laughing with my friends.Not once did I stop to mournThe era come to end.
Giving ThanksThank you--to the manwho stole my innocence.(No amount of showerswill wash awaythe contaminationthat clingsto my soul.)Thank you--to the womanwho drained my self-esteem.(All of my bones protrude,my skinis a sickly yellow,my hair is falling outby the fist full,and my teethare permanently stained.Am I pretty enough now?)Thank you--to the manwho laid his hands on me.(Skin to skin contactscares the living hell out of meand I, honest to God,wish I were dead.I'm not worthy of love.)Thank you--to the womanwho abandoned me.(Just the mere thoughtof having a bond with someonesickens me to my core.The streets taught me morethan you ever could.)Thank you--to the girlwho abuses me every day.(You covered my bodyand my heartin scars.I had to carve a smileinto my lipsso I'd have something nice to look atwhen I gaze in the mirror.)
The DonorThe Doner 7/27/15I've had a good life.I have no regrets.It's time for me to die.What will be my legacy?These are things I wonder.How will I be remembered?Who will mourn me?Have I done enough?Did I appreciate the air I breathe?So I made a decision.A choice of the heart.When I die I will donateparts of me.Parts I hold dear.If in the future I can be helpfulto someone who is without - that willbe my purpose.My corneas, which helped me view beautyand ugliness in this world.I will give to someone who can't see.Maybe they have been blind all theirlife or maybe it's new and it kills them.If I can give them a glimpse of whatI saw then I will die with a grin on my face.My lungs ( although I had asthma and sufferedoccasionally when I was young ) couldbreathe new life into a child ora person with emphysema.Maybe they will be thankful for a second chance.And finally my heart. Which now beats fasterknowing my fate. I don't wish to die.But the cancer is coursing throug
Things they don't tell you.Thngs they don’t tell you about losing your grandfather on a Tuesday night:When you wake the next morning, you stillneed to get out of bed in time for work, you stillhave to shower, dress yourself, eat breakfast, brushyour teeth and hair; and when your mother callsto check in, you have to comfort her because she losther dad last night; and when you call your grandmotheryour voice cannot waver lest you upset her, becauseshe lost a man she's known for seventy years and eventhough she would never hold it against you, you stillfeel obligated not to cry; and when you sit downto do your job, you will have to do it with all your heartbecause if you can
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”[Free-style poem]Why do this love this web comic, you ask?Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)We really do love Sollux’s lisp,and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,it's also Rose's amazing magic.How about when Dave starts rappingand Jade Harley begins napping?We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,and how John is such an adorable guy.Or maybe it’s with all the spritesor how prospit glows bright.Can’t forget about Derse’s darknessor Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)There’s also this thing with Tav and stairswhich he t
Is It Love?If I hugged you,would you never let go?If I kissed you,would you cherish that moment?If I reached for your hand,would you take mine gently?If I needed a shoulder,would you let me cry on yours?If I needed to talk,would you really listen?If I needed to scream,would you do it with me?If I needed to go,would you come with me?If I fell for you,would you catch me?or just let me hit the pavement?
FacesFamiliar faces in a crowdLike wildflowersIn the sea of green fields