Poetry

UNENTITLED 

Indignation is not a kingdom
for which you are to rule over.
You do not get to start a war,
arming yourself with barbs
and jabs, hide behind chainmail
of stereotypes and unreasonable 

reason. You host lavish events,
invite only subjects loyal to you,
ignore those who are not submissive
to you. You order both goose
and gander slaughtered, stuffed,
roasted, placed upon your table

from which you sup and suck
marrow from bone. you make
monthly proclamations, vilify
those who speak in opposition
as if your word is the Gospel
of Matthew while you are only

a serpent on the mount. You walk
your dissenters, caressing their hand
in yours, to the gallows and helpfully
tie knots for them. The peasants
are restless, shaken to insurrection,
drained of their soul. Your kingdom

is falling, the walls of Jericho tumbling
from trumpets of assertive and stalwart
mobs. They throw back the stones 
at your glass castle. You are left to pick
up the pieces, hold the largest to yourself
and see what others have tired of.

Best Served Cold

In the quiet of my room, I crafted words, 
a tapestry of metaphors, woven with care, 
a poem of revenge, subtle and veiled, 
for the one who dared to disrespect me.

Each line a whisper, each verse a shadow, 
hints and allusions, a dance of thoughts, 
but my mentor, wise and firm, saw 
through the veil, the hidden intent.

"Be direct," he said, "be firm and clear.
Let your words strike like lightning.
let them feel the weight of your truth.
Unmask the metaphors, reveal the core."

So, I took my pen, with newfound resolve, 
stripped away the layers, the delicate guise, 
and wrote with a fire, unyielding and bright, 
a poem of revenge, direct and fierce.

No longer hidden, no longer soft, my words 
now a sword, sharp and true. For the one 
who disrespected me will feel the power 
of my unmasked voice.

We are Tired of Your Shit

You're not powerful. You're predatory.
You start fires then act shocked 
when your paper crown burns.
You jab, slash, insult, then hide 
behind clichés and half-baked logic,
as if brutality makes you righteous.

You surround yourself with flatterers,
kill dissent with a grin,
serve blood-stained platitudes
like they're gourmet truth.
You feast on submission,
pull apart convictions,
lick the bones clean.
Your speeches rot on the tongue.

You brand rebellion as sin and 
drape your poison in religious history.
But you're not divine,
you're the hiss behind the sermon,
fangs out, smiling.
You lead those who challenge you
right to the executioner's rope,
pretending you're guiding them to grace.

But people have had enough.
Their veins run hot with fury.
They're tearing your world apart
brick by brick, lie by lie.
They’re throwing your stones back,
shattering your glass ego.
And now you kneel in the rubble,
clutching a shard,
trying to find your reflection,
but all that’s left
is what everyone learned to loathe.