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for this story to be told
one must stand and stand bold
weathering the storms of today
and the cold, wet wind that blows
inside where there are no windows
to open and the doors are all closed
there's blood on the stem of the rose
but, no one seems to notice it at all, coz
flowers don't cry, they just die
but, how could that be...if
if... they were not living, in the
first place so much life is taken
for granted, so many things
that were once held sacred
has been forsaken, we have taken
and given nothing back to the planet
that has been turned into a plantation
manipulated and stripped of the
POWER of MANIFESTATION
man simply chooses his station
the state of the man is his ESTATE
rather REAL or FAKE, the fake
always complain about their aches
hypochondriacs, conjuring up
their own pain and misery
bleeding their issues all over
everyone else, too fearful
and afraid of helping themselves
too selfish to share the wealth
turning blue, from tightening
the Bible Belt, whelped and
bruised from the fastened buckle
a wound is nothing but a notch
a tattooed knuckle, the fallen
are, those who continue to
use them for a crutch...to struggle
