To J.B.P
A vision, a story,
I don’t believe in unity.
No story touches all hearts.
It’s not real – a dream,
Made to ensnare people like me
Who have no identity.
It unites the monster to the princess,
Makes us all accessories.
Stories can be twisted, gutted,
Transformed, trampled.
My mother before me
Found a story.
She could have caught any other.
And if she’d dived deep enough,
Fought hard enough,
She might have done better.
But she was too thirsty,
And wanted a square story
One that’d make her slumber
For another hundred years.
Communism –
Is simple, nice.
But behind the eyes
A serpent slithers,
It bents the words
And breaks the minds.
Unity is soiled ground
Where people go die
When there is nothing else to live for.
I’d rather be taught words,
Shaped into swords,
Words that bleed words
And reinvent worlds.
I don’t want one story, but many.
A University.
Your idea, actually.
Tools would be my keys
Thrown into the deep
Those I want to keep.
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