It’s easy to paint humanity with a broad brush.
If I could, it would be a hate crime,
splashed in red,
or an act of love,
like a beautiful blue sky—
peace, and not war,
depending on my mood.
I try to paint people,
and what I see, are children, just trying to get by
on social security.
There is no security.
It takes war, or disease
for people to know, they aren’t permanent
and the world washes itself and the stains disappear.
Nature resets, and the social game ends,
before it becomes too real.
At work, women demand that I care.
They need to feel
They need me
to always take their side,
but they don’t care about me,
or what I have to say,
as long as I echo
what they have said.
When I am silent, I am an enemy.
They try to murder my reputation,
I’m not there.
Basically, I try to get away from humanity.
I paint their details through binoculars,
and the distance is beautiful.
Groups are dangerous, because they don’t think—
they pretend to
Men, create war
and women are a collective emotion
The mob has no honor, because it can’t understand
it kills anonymously, without respect.
Bureaucracies, religion, and politics, make us the same
and we’re not.
We don’t think the same, and we pretend to.
We are forced to do repetitive tasks,
Our soul dies
When that happens, war washes us red
and the dead
and we won’t know the dead
It becomes our story,
impossible to understand