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,

painted,

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

secure.

They need me

to always take their side,

to agree,

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,

interrupt me,

pretend

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.

It’s politics.

We are forced to do repetitive tasks,

Our soul dies

When that happens, war washes us red

and the dead

don’t know

and we won’t know the dead

It becomes our story,

impossible to understand

History Hard.