Journal

Insomniac's Journal

Words birthed in the internal

His subconscious' dunk-tank

These words remained unranked

Articulate the contemplations

Of these waking frustrations

Pen in hand

Sleep be damned

These are the greatest thoughts in the land

But why do they come at 4 in the morning

Must write them down

And heed the warning

His memory won't serve him as well when he wakes

If only he knew what was at stake

Words, Words, and more still left to come

Cannot stop till he sees the sun

Sunken eyes

Blood shot red

Sleep finally comes to the walking dead

Saturday, March 2, 2013

The Anarchist's Ghost

I am here
To lay waste to your institutions
Destroy your structures
Warp your creations

I am here
To futher taint your tv stations 
Your lies and fabrications 
Bullshit classifications
Your implicit wickedness
And explicit piety 
Crushes your control 
While your sanity suffers quietly
I am here
To finish what you started 
A misguided misanthrope
To this I can admit
On your expectations
And aspirations I do spit
your religions and beliefs 
Are tired and worn
Unproven and broken
Your thought unborn
Your science fixes nothing 
Full circles
It does draw
Evil it spews 
From its venemous maw
We all still know nothing
In the dark we shall remain
Etiquette and conduct
On your will 
They do strain

I am here 
To bring passion to the voiceless
Quit your mindless march 
And stray from the rest 
Put down your pencils
Don't aspire to pass their tests
But in the end 
Just do what you want
Because we're all dead anyway

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