The Things We Do To Our Kids

We give our children our voice without knowing it.
and they sound just like us.

The intonations.

The verbiage.

Thought processes.

Values and beliefs.

Even those that rebel can’t escape it.
They all end up in some capacity like the blank slate before them.
Weather does that to everything over time.
You can’t deny nature without great effort.

The things we do to our kids aren’t right.

Simply through living we tell them how to live and how others should live.

In our own biases we give them bias.
In our own hates we birth hate.
In our own love we birth love.

All of this through the words we choose so carelessly because we don’t know the impact they have.

Some do though, I guess.
Some realize the hate they give and the love they dole.
Some are aware of the biases they keep alive through another generation.

A mama’s boy and daddy’s little man.
Daddy’s princess and mama’s little girl.
All they want to do is please and when its all they know it’s so hard to come out of what’s ingrained inside of you.

You grow up knowing whats right and whats wrong through a keyhole.
It’s amazing what you see when you open the door.



I wanna crash my fingers on the keyboard and make it bleed.  The poor authors and poets of old never knew the bliss of hate typing the fuck out of something.  Angry letters  to the editor with every period a fist into the desk.  The next line ripping the enter key off its place on the right side.  Fuck it, I’ve got another.  I’ll actually use the number pad for once.

Cracking my neck.  Left then right, just like the boxers do.  Pound my fists together.  Fingers out.  Hit the qwerty, let’s go.

What kind of passion draws these emotions out?  The burning scorched earth so deep you can smell it for miles.  Wild fires look as if you’re walking through Hell’s gate and they’ve left the front door open.  The valet will take your car.  Bring your bags, you’re staying the night.

But it isn’t hate, is it?
No.  Of course not.
Hate can fuel an explosion, but it can’t do what lust can do.  Lust can melt steel.

Poets speak of a drive given to us by nature.  One we cannot deny.  It consumes us all at one time or another.  It wets lips that were once dry.

Authors devote their entire existence to describing the beauty of lust.  They talk of times they had it through people that never existed.  These characters are all just parts of themselves walking through a life that never happened talking about an ache that was so god damn real.  Lying with pretty words and spinning truths because we can’t just say it.

I’m not done.  I’ll never be done.  It will go on and on forever.
The burning will continue.  The flames will lick the walls and suck in the air.  Water will boil.  Possessions will melt.
Don’t let me forget to thank you for lighting the match.


We kneel on a stage meant to stand,

because of those who cannot breathe,

and those black men who resemble black men,

so they must be the bad men,

who all look the same.

Others convicted by dark skin,

while wearing hooded sweatshirts.

A crime punishable by a line in the sand,

and a stand in the dark.

It’s not enough to follow their words,

and do as they say.

Because in a dark car, to some, a wallet looks like a gun.

And a peaceful man with his family,

is a child-abusing drugged thug.

A raucous New Years Eve with friends

invokes privilege for some to sleep it off,

but drawn guns and death for others,

all depending on the pigment in your skin.

Asking for change isn’t enough,

it doesn’t work because it’s different for them.

The people who are free from words that cut,

and vile sneers laid over hundreds of years,

cannot fathom oppression.

It needs to be shown in every sense.

Shown through protest on stages not designed for protest,

Shoved in the face of the blind so if they cannot see it,

then can hear it.

If they cannot hear it

they can feel it.

If they cannot feel it,

they can taste it.

And if they cannot taste it,

they can smell it.

People need to stand up for people.

Stand up to oppression.

Stand up to bigotry.

Stand up to hatred.

Stand up to racism, sexism, and homophobia.

And if you cannot stand up because of the weight of the blind,


I love hating things

I love my day job.  I love the way it gives me so little in fulfillment that I’m able to fantasize and dream about something I would actually love doing.  I love that it’s also an annoying combination of a day job and a night job depending on what day of the week it is.  It’s so nice having my schedule fucked up like that every week.

I really enjoy how I’m allotted free thought while doing a menial task so I can wistfully dream of a better life that I could have had and still possibly won’t ever achieve.  I also love the little red line under words to tell me when I’ve misspelled something, because my fingers always like to type ei instead of ie for some reason.

I love my day job because I hate it.  How much fun is it to hate things?  Quite a bit actually.  Some of the greatest connections you can make with a person is when you’re commiserating over how much you hate something else.

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