This is freewrite, with no planned rhythm or prose. Just subconscious writings.
A blowing wind will travel all the expanses of the globe
and keep its mouth shut.
We will walk down the street, see a dog, and talk about it all day.
We're ones that are word obsessed, and I'm writing words.
People are in darkened cubes, nearly silhouettes against the dim haze of phosphorus lights. To make decisions that kill thousands with a piece of paper.
The street behind the white house is the one where the deals go down.
I never wanted to hurt anyone, but to ask that is to ask for peace or the solving of world hunger. Never will it happen.
Priorities are shaped and twisted to the point of epiphany.
The light of day will always wither away and I'll be there, night in my cup and the world under my wheels.
To race the wind and find yourself at odds not in your favor.
To play the trick, and snuff the ones that control the things that even science can't describe.
To forget your place in the cog and in turn stop it, but for what?
To have you taken out and other gear replaced. We've done it.
We're shaping morals in our children.
We're confusing the cycle of time with our lives. We're forgetting the classic needs.
But what do I do?
I can't order troops with my words?
I can't move armies to little brown villages with a signature.
I can't drop our greatest invention, so where am I?
To get the 20th century invention that pays the bills, not to live but to work to live.
It's not enough that I've just asked for life, but the demand grows, transforms and retorts all my remarks.
For every one of me, there are billions of them.
Face hits table,
I need a smoke.