The Fight I Found


Welcome to the blaming game where players claim the pretended fame of selfless, sinless, saint-like names like Dante, Leo, Chekhov and Paine while babbling lies to bolster a budding pride, or stitch a wound with rotting and selfish and plastic sutures to prove a hopeful future. Not one forgot the feminist, and “…how could we?” with that careful shriek planted softly on my sweetened, innocent cheek and thrust upon my tranquil ears, are thoughts on economy, class and careers. The classless, jobless and the hopeless fraud, this ingot of wealth and the economist’s God, who creates by breaking and loves by faking. The politician’s hidden vanity, too afraid to call it morality, for hidden deep, down and inside us all is a worthy son of royalty. The pen’s become a kite unstrung that flew so quick and so far away and fled in long and quiet strides to paint our sky with hearts complaints without restraint, with lies of lust, with thoughtless jotted bolts of fear or another feminist’s frenzied thought and tear. Refusing comfort and accusing all, as quickly abuses few: The Fight I Find On Medium Now. On Why I Love To Hate or Why The World’s A Death-Filled Place. Are there simply beating hearts behind those sinful bleeding words? They hide the birth of adult children and proclaim the death of childish passion, yet those words they write with cartoon pens are pacifiers, bibs and bouncing toys that excuse their infant noise. You’re children with a vernacular. I want fresh and exhaled words upheld without that moment between your thoughts and Hell. I want Quiet Thoughtful Words On Life. I want How To Keep A Happy Wife. This journey isn’t over yet and the more we fight, the worse it gets. I’ll grasp my sisters failing hand to pull her toward a better Land; to find and behold that bad men fight, speak and even write without that thoughtless, vengeful letter, because this Word makes bad men good and good men better.

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