Current state of affairs...

Years of fear have brought us here

Anger grew to hate

No one listens, no one talks 

Now we fear our fate

Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles

We're all torn apart

Everything we're supposed to love

We somehow have forgot

Until we listen we will not know

What others talk about

Stop the brain stop the pain

And listen with your heart

The walls must fall that divide us all

That keep us far apart

Bridges heal, bridges grow 

Give us a new start

So stop the tears, and stop the fears

We need something new

Building love, building trust

building what is true

So take my hand we'll march together

Fight to live a new forever

Here for you, here for me

Here for all those that will be

And when we win, they will know

We fought with all our heart and soul

Fought for justice, Fought for life

Always fighting for what's right

The Bullet and the Gun

The bullet and the gun, copper and steel, the squeeze of the trigger, the rush of adrenaline.

We're taught the bullet and the gun is an extension of us, reach out and touch someone they say.

In Iraq, the bullet and the gun was a way of life, here it most surely means my death. 

Over there the bullet and the gun plays politics with innocent lives, while at home the innocence lost is realized.

In war it is a shame when the bullet and the gun go unused, in peace it is a tragedy when it is.

The bullet and the gun, once so easy to use, now seems like an only option. 

I once felt safe with the bullet and the gun, now their coldness dangerously caress my lips. 

I thought the bullet and the gun was to protect them, but now I think it is to end to the misery I have caused them. 

22 brothers and sisters find refuge in the bullet and the gun everyday, I fight everyday to not be one of them.

And yet the bullet and the gun calls like a siren in the night, tempting to be used while screaming "why" to the flashing of red and blue lights.

The bullet and th... 

Crooked Lines

The birds chirping, the sky getting lighter. This has become my regular routine. I feel like I've become a vampire, hiding in the dark, hiding from the light. But instead of blood, I crave whiskey. It's like an eraser, but no matter how hard I press, the lines are still there, like scars that will always be there. Scars of war, scars of love. Their all deep and their all apart of us. We should learn from them and not try to erase them, but still we do. We try to hide from the pain like the light. We keep trying to cover it all up, with new pleasures, all to bury the past, cover the scars. But it all lies under the surface. Until strength can be found to address the pain, address the scars, no true happiness can be found. I can only hope that someday I can put down the eraser and learn to address the crooked lines and realize that the beauty of art isn't as much in the eye of the beholder as much as it is in the understanding of the process to which it took to make the lines itself...

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