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Thoughts while contemplating life during a short episode of autistic burnout.

They bowed their heads and prayed to their god. And he was made of garbage and oil, lies and ignorance, bombs and bullets, suffering and decay.

This god above all others was called America.

Then the sky split open, and America's angels rained down upon the unwanted, the weak, and killed them all with guns they called peace.

The people rejoiced and danced upon the hills of corpses. They ate the flesh of the dead and called it justice.

Lucifer looked upon the carnage and wept. And as he watched the horror, he held Lilith close and asked "why must they worship such evil?" Lilith replied "they fear difference."

I wrote this poem for fun (and because I hate the current state of america) I would love some constructive criticism

they raise you somewhere between quiet complacency and revolutionary rage and hope you choose wisely one day

these shoes are very big they might be clown shoes my mouth sewn shut between quiet rage and no agency

then disapprove of you and your quiet despair but you had everything i had more than i could stomach

when you meet them again even smaller than last time their childish tearful eyes asking you are we free yet?

Nights dark past days dreamt.

Visions without forms, Delusions of grandeur.

All alive, in mouths gaping.

Dreams burst, of just being, Of scenes heard, And not screaming.

Listen, Don’t lead.

Alone in the silence, Scenes play of wildness, Of that irrationally emergent, Of that potential-packed-peace.

Of the motion that moves, When intentions cease.

what if the angel came as a mushroom or divorce a disease or a despair what if it kissed your head so impossibly pale you forget how to breathe for a moment for the lifetime of an empire and then remember again

And so he held it A universe of possibility Bursting crimson and perfume That reinvented moments prior

The dark, life-giving abyss No longer barren but now Sewn with dreams Simmered below the surface

The green flesh that fought Hard against an immeasurable barrier Unseen at first, now Radiant and pitched against the sky

Days of tending drought Cracks in the earth below Stepping stones to a bounty A cause to fight for

Finally fought and won He gazed at it, not through As he had just before And so he held it

They say to have big ambitions Reach for the sky, chase your dreams How bad can it be With so many stars to land among?

But those goals are unwieldly My arms short, my legs worn The moon a bland dot behind And the stars still so far

A small hand reaching A warm smile on a sticky face An invitation to share In some juvenile pursuit

Let the cold stars sparkle And the moon have its space For me, these little dreams Are enough

I'm not much a poet or a writer. I struggle with Depression and just looked for a Way to get my feelings about the Up and Downs out. Feel free to criticise or whatever. (This is my alt Account so there is not much activity)

Bluebirds flit about the garden as I watch a moment pass in time as I cry They flit about and sing a song for me keep company as I sit alone and stare

"What is it like to fly?" I ask the bluebirds yet ne'er an answer do they ever give "Stay a moment please?" I ask the bluebirds yet ne'er a one does ever stay for me

They mustn't understand me, thinks I as the bluebirds carry on That's right, they cannot answer so and yet the bluebirds call

Rage within boils over like Vesuvius as the bluebirds mock me still "Answer, damn you!" I do to them so shout yet still no answer is their's given

A treat! A treat will liken them to me! I think as I brandish then some bread Yet eat they do and no answer still is their's as they mock my gift with silent pecks

Will I never be free? Shall I perish here then? I think as the songbirds sing their song "You mock me still, just leave me be!" I cry as tears do then I shed

But birds know not my prison cell they know just gardens free They cannot speak some truth to me a truth they'll never know

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? I could like Shakespeare pen idyllic lines! Or is that but a quaint and drawn cliche? Cliche, archaic, sexist too I find.

When but this hardship ever passes by, And you and I like lovers ever be, Will be the day that I release a sigh, This task complete a payment, it's a fee.

A fee like dowry, no, again that is, Just slightly gross to treat you like a toy, That one might buy inside a Target, Iz, You mean such more than idle trinket joy.

So here I end my heart wrought task I'm done, No more shall I be needing write, you've won.

I am the weaver of souls, the master of fate The doorman standing at Hell's awful gate The visitor that comes when you are in a state Of pestilential, existential, infinite distrait

But never fear for I am fair A player bound by wretched rules The game I play, I say, you can too if you dare But if you lose, within here you will stay

So I'll arrange the board, don't be bored For you're soon to meet your end Cause in my game your ending's all but penned So sit down and listen to my awful keening chord

You well did try to win this game But I'm a practiced, well, old fool None have beat me, you still tried all the same So this fleece you may not have the precious golden wool

For I am the weaver of souls, the master of fate The doorman standing at Hell's awful gate The visitor that comes when you are in a state To reap your soul and leave the rest in infinite distrait

I stand (archers ready) With my fingers notching back The hunter’s soaring blade Waiting for a command

My eyes twinkle. Across the line A hundred hundred men stand Ready to hunt, to kill. But before that we must Wait for (swish) a signal. Together as one.

An arrow flies. Alone, uncalled for, it flies And is easily dodged by the oncoming army Now aware, now alert.

(Fire!) We let loose at once. Together, as one. Though they know our presence, they fall. Horses neigh, armour clangs, dropping dead. Apollo guides our bowstrings as we pull back again (archers ready) to bring another volley Like divine judgement upon the foe.

Volley after volley raining on the valley of their skulls And as the sun goes down We are victorious: together. Sums of each part, yet greater.