so I write. by Peter Chapman

do you ever feel like you keep too much of it inside?
like there's something in your subconscious that's polluting your mind;
grinding your gears until all your thoughts and your fears
combine with the lie that you're fine and dry up all of your tears?
you smoke pot and drink beers just to keep the hurt beneath
until the truth breaks through your sanity and shocks all who can see it.
you bleed and you breathe but not yet are you free;
your mental disease tries to heal but psychosis is me.

fear hangs in the derangement of your inner mind,
but as you fall into madness you ask why
the third eye sees seas turn into rain.
the game's changed, now "sane" reigns
with the same stains on different brains;
but, all the pain that remains will see the task through
until no one can recognize you, not even you.

not even me, could bring ashes past masses
like black burned from the green.
at the seam, masking a scheme, blast gas cans in street;
whip lashes slash gashes backbone sliced, grin and bleed.
covering things, smothering dreams,
the Man winks as He sings
and walks fast past the last as He cashes His greens.
never seen, it’s obscene,
the mean wean you off dreams;
only to make you work harder and steal everything.

until you’re callously sane, observing through window panes rain
dropping like acid drenching the whole world in vain.
painting the perfect picture of our adolescent presence and perception on this planet;
too absorbed by our own egos but can’t think without the xanax,
and so quick on our feet to build up cities with concrete
and plant a tree on the sidewalk just to remind us that it was green.
it’s obscene how they think they control your life
and how they dangle a dollar in front of you like you need it to survive.
in the eye of the beholder, the torch of life is lit
so as you strive to be bolder, there’s no reason you should quit.

that’s it, that’s all; are you ready for the fall?
that’s it, that’s all; are you ready for the fall?
that’s it, that’s all; are you ready for the fall?
‘cause when the castle crumbles, there’ll be freedom for us all.

we tripped now we’re falling and the working-class citizen's
left hopping on one leg through the hoops they presented ‘em.
revolution calling change in the name of a broken system;
with a billion voices bawling, how the fuck could they resist them?

we fell, now we’re rising, surprising the Man in the top seat.
put down your pot and visine, take the uprising to the streets.
what’s the point in pride things when you give up your beliefs
to hide in the comfort of your bedroom underneath your white sheets?

Bullies by Eric Sparks

It's just like when Little Billy came running home in tears;
his mother and father hugged him of course, before they asked him
what was wrong?

At that moment, all the meaning in the world
seemed to hinge on that one question:
what was wrong?

Little Billy stared up at his blurry parents;
their features were distorted by his tears like a fun-house mirror.
He almost laughed at his father's seemingly enormous ears,
but then he cowered when he saw his mother's large, bulging eyes.
Billy wiped his face dry with his cuff before he told them why he cried.

"Johnny pushed me off the swing today, then
he laughed and hollered and yelled and smiled
all because he got to watch me fall. He choked me by the collar
and hit me with a baseball."

Father said, "my son, you have to stand tall. Johnny's
just a bully. There's no reason to act sullen or sad.
It's just one bad kid doing bad kid things.
The heads not fit for crowns, never become kings."

"But dad, even the other kids saw it happen.
The bullies cracked stupid jokes and laughed,
but even my friends just looked the other way.
Why, I'd crack him in his brain; there's no other way."

Then mother finally spoke up,
"Little Billy, my love, you have to use your words.
That's the way to stop any bully or anybody
who will ever be on your nerves.
I understand your urge for violence,
but silence hurts more in the end so it earns more respect.
Do you see what I mean?"

And father agreed.

The problem is, we were all once kids;
so Little Billy's parents' lies should have no place in our mind.

Oh, I remember trying to use my words
when the fucking bullies pushed me around. I probably
screamed a million words per minute, but they didn't hear a sound.
I cried "stop, fuck, shit, why, stop, leave me the fuck alone,"
but I still fell bloody on the ground. (Bullies) are all around;
they come in every shape and size. The biggest giant can't fight back;
the smallest ant can't hide.

Funny thing is, nobody ever told me to use my words.
I just screamed as soon as they punched me, like every other kid.
Do the parents really think that we didn't think to tell the bullies to stop?
The little ones did; I did. The bullies ignored me like every other kid.

What falls from your lips when words won't work?