People are often so quick,
To dismiss me.
Fools,
Unknowing of my scope –
Or scale.
Do you know what my respect,
Is worth?
Do you have any concept,
Of the enormity hanging?
Perched above your head,
Guillotine sharp?
Perhaps I am too much a relic;
Archaic cryptid of honor.
Expecting kindness?
Maybe that’s what makes me,
The naive one.
Breaking records –
By accident.
Working faster than anyone else.
If that earns scorn?
So be it.
Fuck you.
My work has always been,
For me.
Hunting evolution,
Or kindness.
Rarely finding either.
This stagnation hurts.
The cruelty;
I can take.
But pity the ignorant,
For all of us here,
Once were.
Bliss,
As they say.
Even those I hold lofty;
Often disappoint me.
What else is new?
They say not to do things,
For external validations.
What do you do –
When all the responses are scorn,
Or derision,
From the start?
Hell,
It’s always been –
A lonely road.
One gets used to playing the hermit.
Eight billion humans.
Most of them hate,
Things like us.
Born wrong,
Deformed.
Broken from the start,
Perhaps?
But then how do we explain this power?
Feats other humans reel;
At the thought of.
Moving like light,
While the rest are stuck,
Locked in slow motion.
At times,
When the hatred becomes too much.
Cruelties too great to bear,
I become a perfect misanthrope.
Pacifism raging before the bonfires,
Of desired extinction.
Gleefully watching the seppuku,
Of a species.
That schadenfreude?
Or bloodthirst?
To sit back.
Do nothing.
Watch as the whole world burns.
Me along with it.
What do we give of ourselves?
Each time we swing backwards?
Pendulum arcing towards humanist,
Praying I don’t lose faith again.
Belief that we can be better,
Than our flaws.
No god exists;
That could stand in our way.
But petty squabbling,
Is our forte.
No,
I doubt I’ll ever get as much respect –
As I give.
A crying shame.
Shitty monk,
Quelling bloodlust.
Those annoying urges,
To crush the stupid.
Obliterate hatred at the root,
Like a plague,
Or a promise.
No.
We must be better,
Than our worst selves.
Clawing towards utopia,
I refuse to become,
What they’ve often stereotyped me to be.
Perhaps I’ll always be the savage,
Noble or not.
Heathen from stolen wilds.
Monster from forgotten cultures.
Sack of meat,
& bone.
Wildling,
Covered in dirt,
Or sawdust.
Stained with black moly grease,
All the way to the heart.
Always been good –
At Playing Pygmalion,
With different words,
Than the play.
Soul ejecting histories,
Of cackling madmen.
Selves we used to be.
Do you think it scares them?
That we were once ignorant,
Too?
Viewed as animals,
Or beasts of burden.
Fuck your titles.
I have plenty.
The names,
Held sacred by a profession.
No institution,
Can stop me.
Don’t need your approval,
To exist.
Anarchist hearts,
Flying free.
To never be beholden,
To any other human,
Ever again.
That’s the dream.
To choose our own accountability,
Ourselves.
Fools.
I was a fool once.
Know the power a jester holds.
Fools On Fools. \\ Fools On Fools.
