The Axe: In the face of despair it just takes a tear to nourish the Earth when it hits the dirt. A foundation of trust just rots from the lust and that rage that remains consumes all of us. But it’s hard when it comes, yeah it’s hard when it comes, it’s hard when it all comes down to you, and it’s hard when the axe, yeah it’s hard when the axe, it’s hard when the axe comes down on you. I’ve got mine to grind and I know you do too, as youth is wasted on kids who don’t think, making others fret with ultimatums and threats that are hollow and empty regardless of edge.

Pledge: Let’s go decentralize information calmly marching through isolated streets of people aimlessly pandering about the phobias littered along the pavement, letting off carbon moxie sighs as a final testament! Bombarded by a skewed world view that’s just unreasonable by those who claim to know the all-encompassing truth. I pledge allegiance in my rags, clothing me as countries become despotic with no thought of history, everyone and place corrupted with fraud, forever divisive, investing in leaders granting justice to none.

Singular Vision: It’s building up now, it’s building up now, it’s building up now, that’s when it gets torn down. And then it remains, and then it stays, unmoved and stagnant until it gets replaced! What’s the next thing? What’s the next thing? Is it something worth buying? Or investing? Connecting feeling with purposeful dealings? Or just another replacement that’s the same? Uncertain of the future while coughing up infection that has penetrated like a virus in paradise, in the land of the blind a one eyed man is king, tell me what you see that’s misunderstood by speech.

Empire: Confused I stand here waiting in place holding everything I tried to create, another frightening day on the bloody streets that we comfortably watch on TV screens. Darkness descends and blankets the eyes, the perpetual cycle won’t lay down and die, a sense of fervor is neatly aligned as everybody continues the plan to build with bricks of memories on foundations of anger and rage, fill the walls with human life discarded along the way, creative blood is all dried out as hate flows through my veins, forever constructing using our futures in the name of an empire… Set upon a fantastic path, losing faith and knowing less, this is what the new age has for me. A global community’s no place to hide as the first response is genocide, then buildings are burned, god invoked, education replaced, as we continue to...

Scratching at the Pavement: Waking, buzzing normalcy disrupts my slumber like a million wake up calls. No rest for the potentially wicked or potentially mundane. I lay alive in flesh housed walls. Another day, dollar, and dubious wonder as I prepare to spend another life time scratching at the pavement. My facial features are not my own, as though cut and fashioned from some different mold. A close blade shave is the price you pay for being born outside the fold. Slice your face to become decent, lathered body - clean to keep it, hair pomped up so all can see it, and play dress up success - so they think you mean it. From motor pride to MBTA control I walk on commuter holy land complete with wailing rails and Jehovah’s witnesses to complete the divine spite of the stations of the train. Jesus may have been a savior but he worked for a living too. But saviortism has no place here on the long train track to hell... So we continue to wait - grieving countless indulgent payments as I gear up to continue scratching at the pavement while pillars of cement and piles of sand soak in droplets from the sky. All that’s left is the moment, outside of that is all. Today flows water from both the sky and eyes as I slog through the daily horror of reality to get to my prize. The boss is off duty leaving the colleagues to rest a little easy as I console workers who gave time to themselves... If you work slower they beat you harder. If you work faster they beat you harder. Rain falls with power on the rest of the pack, as I shiver like a pathetic drowning cat. The walls of concrete speak to me through porous chunks of cement, as the constant reminder of rebellious caring won’t get off my back as I continue scratching. All that’s left is the moment, outside of that is all. Beginnings take place to reconcile endings and burn the mistakes of the past, yet like a ragged shell I search deep for reminders in memorial trash. Who knows what I want? Don’t bother to ask. Who knows what I need? Don’t bother to ask. Who knows what I do? Don’t bother to ask. Who knows what I love? Don’t bother to ask. Stand leaky boat American and its social rotting wood, the heart of a child and the mind in adulthood, planted firm like triumphal arches or warlike stances to prove that I never forget my roots. To yearn and hope and go back to the days where comfort and feeling prevailed in most ways, will it happen again? I dare not say! I hope for and not, the fear’s always the same- Afraid when you have, afraid when you don’t. Never invest in the beauty of hope, unless you’re willing to work and make it a common commodity for every one and thing. The final thing I remember was the moment, outside of that was all. The grass, the snow, the grassy snow blanket balancing acts. The moments now are lonely and cold, learning the tricks of a white collar trade. Drowning the feelings of memories past, that moment eternal... But never to last.

Generations: Still in search of the all-time rush, the kind we don’t think about too much, it’s so ingrained and wired into the spine of society that shows… Peace dissolution, forceful mind intrusion, and the erosion of basic human rights. There’s something to be said but it’s been drowned out, by the past generations who can’t keep up, and only in hindsight do they regret mistakes if they even choose to contemplate. Mired between progress and tradition, drugged with images of wealth and beauty, symbolism through product placement, the foundation of a nation complacently subdued.

Cattle Prod: Get in line. Buy it all. 1,000 volts. Cattle prod. Stay in line. Consume it all. American way. Cattle prod. Remember the times when life made sense, as the vocal cynics said it wouldn’t last? Now just products of a bye-gone era, a dying breed on this rotting terra. Get in line. Buy it all. 1,000 volts. Cattle prod. Stay in line. Consume it all. American way. Cattle prod. Taking everything seriously because everything’s a threat and we are the target. Relearning the history we chose to forget without the mire of remorse and regret. March in line. Cattle prod. In these times there is no choice as influence cuts the dissenting voice. Translation is lost between them and me when those who struggle support the elite, who want to keep us all in chains which is leading to our decline.

City of Peace: These dreams I hold are not my own but a collection of others recorded, remembered; the stories of people whose hopes have ceased while praying for calm in the city of peace. Buildings are burned, spray painted and tagged, a grim reminder of the age of decay, rotting within without any shame, that continues on despite any change. Twisting minds with outright lies in the vain attempt to create memories or make believe all is fine within confines of the city of peace. These dreams I hold from people who told of a life beyond the limits of men, are entrusted to those who carry the load – passing on what’s left to the rest.

This one’s from the heart...

Rush Hour of the Gods: They came fast without a sound, the last thing heard was a boom. Seen as demons from beyond, here to stay as long as they want. Though they were untouchable, we knew they were corruptible. The fertile sod was now made barren thanks to the rush hour of the gods. I remember the point I went crazy, after everyone and thing just upped and died. Asking for a little help, they laughed and gave me this sordid advice: “Learn to pray your days away, but salvation don’t come cheap… You’ll soon learn to pay in flesh as we lounge in the blazing sun.”

Regressor: Trapped in a bubble within a flawed design by an architect of madness driven by the times, pushing faster getting more productive getting nothing for my future. Laughing in the wake of realization, objectivism favors the regressor, one who benefits from the labor of the many, as the idiot elevates to leader. Altruism is such a sin within confines of egotism, drawing the line between strong and weak is the greatest crime of all, when regression is the only way to prove how strong you really are as your suffering is mitigated thanks to all the help you knowingly accept.

The Death Nail: Along the rocks wet and cold I hold a hammer in my left and a shovel in my right. Both fashioned from the earth and combined in glory, the perfect items for working with endings. Forged with compassion and undying emotion into a silent cacophony, the notion of commotion doesn’t exist due to the pounding. Building what I can with the best I’ve got isn’t much but it’s better than nothing at all, a satisfying time all the same even after the hard work is done. What’s it gonna be when it’s time to choose? The status quo or the unknown? With everyone screaming for their say, which doesn’t amount to much anyway, driving nails onto the coffin of failure to bury all the aches and pains: Of unemployment, of the end times, the elite who think they rule our lives, to those below who support their lies, the death nail’s gonna hurt.

Mechanized: Digitally enhanced through years of progress, as the human brain regressed. Introspection starts to erode, causing system overload. Sitting in chairs of compromise, staring at screens that burn the eyes, not even tears can cool the pain. Developing reason in laboratories in the name of complacency. Technology advances with ease, keeping connection intact. In sequential dismay, a dazzling array of a neatly packaged reality. Sitting in chairs of compromise, staring at screens that burn the eyes, not even tears can cool the pain. In poorly lit rooms we still continue to never ask why how we’ve become so mechanized.

Martyr Syndrome: Born into abject poverty surrounded by sand castles of faith, men and women together in bondage veiled in constant torture and rape. Moral police patrol the streets, bombarding minds with airwave time to those whose only simple crime is living the pain of oppressed lives. Ground into the dirt to serve the few at the expense of majority, seeking ways to display power without giving back anything. Pay for their mistakes as living proof of control over your home, confined in chains thanks to the plague that’s called martyr syndrome.