It is useful,sometimes,to have an
And Then,
It is a more subtle heartbreak than a The End,
And filled with more love than a full-stop.
We often think how rich we are,
Or perhaps you benevolently pretend not to notice,
You say you're not materialistic,
And you hate arguing.
But there are slaves still.
There are little towns of humans which think of "it"- and image that tiny insignificant "it" as a Cerberus type monster of chaos,so that you can understand the venom you should stress the word in the amazing world of your subconscious-as normal.
Humans are a type of currency,
But you are not materialistic 
And money does not matter to
We often think how rich we are,
Or perhaps you benevolently pretend not to notice,
You say you're not materialistic
And you hate arguing.
The slaves should not be called The Slaves,
Because isn't that handing the "masters" the gate with which to lock them in?
They are people,and we have all descended from stars.
Which is funny because we are just glorified chimps.
Yet we get to be made of infinity,
Which is sad in a way,
Infinity is also nothing
And nothing is terribly sad.
The words we strike,if you dare to strike your words,
Are beautiful and ugly
And annoyingly paradoxical.
And if there is a reader-because I am more used to being The Reader-
She or He or They or Them, might disagree with me.
They might stand up and say "you are a fool!"
Although nobody really says fool anymore,
And I could agree or disagree,
(Most probably agree.)
I have the opportunity to do that.
With a smile,of course,
It doesn't hurt to be kind,
There is enough pain.
But those who I have ignorantly condemned with the title of The Slaves,the people who are not their own,
They can not argue.
But that's okay,isn't it?
You don't like to argue.
We often think how rich we are,
Or perhaps you benevolently pretend not to notice,
You say you're not materialistic
And you hate arguing.
And perhaps I shouldn't waste my metaphorical ink,because in truth it is the less poetic smartphone that is my choice of weapon,
And stand up.
But all I do is read.
There is a stack of books to my left,pages of words and words and words
There is a yellowish light to my room,
And my fake,garishly pink,glow-in-the dark stars do not make me feel numinous like our ancestors,
But powerful because they are so small,and so stupid,and so very very pink.
Not the pink of a soft dusk sunset featuring in a romantic/untrue novel which tastes like velvet on the eyes and crinkles and mixes with the blue hues of the sky,
But the pink of fake blood
 (which, in truth, is closer to red)
not even the colour of real blood,
Just fake.
And yet here I sit,with Radiohead paused and waiting,and books looking despondently at me with their crocodile-mouth-title eyes,
And all I want to do is Help,
But still I do nothing,
And I read.
I hope I find the answers in the words,
Of Kerouac or Austen,
In the rhythms of bands who killed their families souls and their body with drugs,
I want to help.
I'm tired of sitting.
I'm tired of reading.
I want to write,
I want to fly,
I want to sing,
I want to travel.
But these people who are trapped do not get wants,
They do not get words.
I want to give them words.
They deserve to have words.
They deserve to have the lightening and the dull ache and the slow,
Which word would you teach them first?
I don't know,I'm not sure if I care,
I'm not sure if it matters.
Words are nothing really,
Haven't you heard the phrase
"Actions speak louder than words"?
And yet words are everything.
They should have the everything and the nothing that is this world,
They should have that,
And then we can figure out the political mess that would ensue,
And then,




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