My words seem lost on blank pages.
My words seem lost on you.
If life is a series of stages,
my encore is a master-planned coup.
The Kennedy’s represent our golden years.
We call them our Camelot.
But nothing is ever as it appears.
In the end, only good guys get shot.
You said you wanted artists with vision,
but you were looking for creative control.
If you truly know the culture of your people.
Then you know, artists blow where they role.
I’m neither a John Fitzgerald,
nor a Jackie O.
Put down your frontal-lobe chess matches.
Put down your political show.
I paint pictures about your failed logic.
I write satires to poetically convey,
poking holes in all your manipulations,
transparentizing the bureaucratic things you say.
I’ve nothing to prove in the arena of Communism.
I’ve nothing to gain in the circus of Autocracy.
I’m not fooled by a diplomatized euphemism.
I can see through manipulative strategy.
I’m an artist with words and conviction.
I flirt with Oppositional Defiance Disorder.
Nomads do not acknowledge political jurisdiction,
yet they are vitally integral to every border.
So I’ll paint these granular sandcastles
that you’ve built with shovel and pail.
Just know the sketch will involve a devil,
and your desert, something like hell.

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