so many new technologies

blocking out the light, so often

my plight is the next stroke of the pen,

i’m often not concerned

with the pen, as i fight

to survive the predicament in which i currently find,

my self is part divine,

part mind and whole body,

divisive to my nature is institutionalized hatred,

and they want me

to be a patriot ‘cause they celebrate

exploitation, but my pen

will not allow it,

i’m devout in my refusal,

a drought in perusal of time signs

encloses minds in dark cells,

time imposes a dark hell, i am

the chosen, i don’t dwell on the conclusions of others,

develop potent mixtures,

deliver clues to my brothers in arms,

on this path,

or in the same vein,

my pen leaves a stain

that marks them ‘til death,

i embark on this journey, much travel

left to be done,

under the gun, i am the subject

of their aim to please,

mere game to these hunters for black blood,

i fight back with pen floods

and ink spills, i strike

at the heart of the matter,

and give chills,

spinal cords get cheap thrills when awakened

by awareness,

lack of preparation is inconsequential,

to be conscious is essential to the growth of less mind,

my pen is a torrent of intuitive design