Lightening

There is a secret world that hides inside the tangible and it just busted through the divide between left and right to widen it and flip the world upside down.
Every day is like watching WWII in HD from inside the TV,
standing in front of a tank in nothing but bare feet.

A dictator chosen for me by a bought and paid for cash only "democratically elected" representative hides his vampire teeth behind a flag pinned to the lapel of his white mans armor that guars a purple heart earned by shrapnel burried in someone else.
For the rest of us left on the to witness the fallout watch crucifix silhouettes drop clouds full of thoughts and prayers backed a god that doesn't care to follow through,
no god to stop the shell shock from rocking across the hate blistered carpet bombed horizon.
Blaze a new path back to our roots as our boots hurry back to dance with Norman Rockwell and Bob Ross.
Painting happy trees over concrete buildings cracked and creeping with the age that swallows a place once the dust settles in,
we swim in it as if it would give us peace.

It's funny how events often looks like war footage for most,  but for some it's remembered as a chest full of medals,
they flip the definition of oppression and have the audacity to claim to make america great again by sending it back to when one could attend a lynching at sunrise and then get breakfast as a lunch counter full of whites vomitting praise for Jesus Christ.
Mob mentality lemmings dive into old film reels of a General with ivory gripped dueling pistols at his hips, a flag flying in the wind, a giant codpiece hiding his tiny dick that arrived a convenient  five minutes after the tanks did.
He lived in a time when retribution was fresh fruit and romanticized by people that never tasted it.

Im living in war footage that the future will study to see what happened.
For every mind that leaves reality behind to chase fairytales,
hearts like mine are left alone to dry out in the sun because the show of force must go on.
It blurs the line between "i feel" and "i am" neither a positive affirmation, both a painful realization.  

I have to peel myself open to read the lines written underneath my skin for a play on a stage I never volunteered to be in.  
The word gay has become synonymous with my name, after all, in the 1950s, you are what you eat.
So I eat a handful of pills to stay sane and alive.
It's not really an intelligent design, no matter how inelegantly people argue otherwise.
We are a suicide note without a pen, I'm waiting for the and place to shake the hands responsible for my infection.  
To thank them for so brutality fucking up my existence.
I've become a broken plaything in a broken world and the lightening storm inside is reaching out to the sick kid that built it,
and denounced its power in his inflated biography.
But lightning beats paper.
Maybe these flames from the funeral pyre can reach higher this time and write and write a final letter to that son of a bitch to let him know we are still down here trying to survive.