Right left we bleed the same
can we forgive
live
better lives
Cancel culture the cancer of the left
Bitter resentment fills out our hearts
no love either side
thought police divide us all
right authority with no escape
raid the poor
but the poor hate the rich for having more
is there an answer
or only more hate.
Schizophrenia and the caveman
I dreamt of telling stories
forged in magic and music.
I heard voices of gods
angels and demons
In the flickering flames
that kept me warm.
It was part of my evolution
but sometimes
did wisdom is seen as mental illness
Nowadays I am known as a schizophrenic
I was a caveman with a shamans knowledge
Now they say I am something to be feared
When I was just reaching out
to understand.
Knowledge is carnage it kills lies
Those pretty liars don’t like it!
Knowledge is power
it hurts you want it
more
it opens doors that you shouldn’t want to open
it plays on repeat in hidden escape rooms
with the truth
that pisses you off
it makes you want die
cry open up and ask why?
but it’s scientifically proven
so there’s no getting around it
confound it!
But knowledge is like a clever serial killer you have to look in the right places to find it
and most people unfortunately are blind to it.
Words have a history
it’s not a mystery
If you do the research
from racist toys
for girls and boys
we have to respect
words have a history
and so do objects
so please have some respect
and acknowledge the implications
we all want to be loved above stereotypes
and life is cannot be lived in present only;
history matters
and leaves us sometimes in tatters
words will often leave us broken
hurting us more than sticks and stones
and broken bones.
People don’t want truth
delusions and illusions
are more loved
more accepted
more respected
Honesty, a fools game
people douse you in shame
a repulsive mix
stick and stones
may break my bones
but words will dethrone
a king from his own throne
and people will turn away
and leave him alone
the mirror of truth is always distorted
we want to keep it that way
we aren’t objective
we want to be respected
but our public relations feed on Facebook
would bleed away if ever we showed who really are
Our fragility and our fragile ego
Break like a dropped model of Lego.
In the darkness and light of a daydream from a distant heaven. The woman with many faces but one soul. I have looked at legends and myths. She is a gift. To live many lives and still remember some of them is her curse.
I remember she woke my kaleidoscopic mind like in the song porcelain by Moby. A conversation between the two of us. Her timelines spread across mine. Her heart and soul a beacon for mine.
Giving me a reason for life and seeing beyond the illusion of separation. She has been living all the lives I see through the collective unconscious the Holy Spirit is a girl a woman a mother a sister a friend a lover and so much more. Life would be a mistake without her music. She speaks through the crowd words of wisdom that guide me.
I have been labelled schizophrenic but I can see her spirit in all things. The way the wind moves the trees leaves she is one who guides us all. Oneness is what I have found I am her protector I love her darkness her light some may say I have lost my mind. And all the unkind things but those people are blind.
In the days when the exception they say
doesn’t need correction.
we are all creative
but some have it beaten out of us
at some stage
the war the exceptional person rages
is either to have their words heard
or to keep their creative side alive
and not have it brutalised or strangled
an Angel or messenger of light
has to fight to maintain their angle of light
and their perspective and sight.
Hanging on the cross
collecting the dross
on the doss
the dole,
of having a soul
what are we but clay pots collecting water?
no we are more and always have been
the views we have seen
the rhythms from the heart
the frequencies of our words
the skies, the birds
the moaning of love making
cell division shaking
through separation
like salt dissolving in water
and yet we are sons and daughters
trying to identify with our identities
yet eventually returning to the soul we came from
our bodies returning to dust
but our soul remains
in the Everglades.
People have problems
and the problems have people.
We grow hope but it’s up the church steeple.
I want to talk about mine but no one listens
they are arguing and talking loudly missing
the point
all my words are disjointed
why should yours take preference let’s talk about mine
see mine are more pressing so let’s not whine about yours
for let’s face it you don’t want hear what’s bottled up in my daily dose of fears
you’ve all got your problems
can I turn into a sad little shadow
haunting a corner of a solitary room
there’s no room for me in your gloom
And tombs aren’t the sought of place
for the daily rat race
so shout the loudest
be proud of your problems
let me be an agony aunt
for you when it’s my turn you won’t or can’t…
listen…