The Adventures Of Red Writing Hood

I wrote a sonnet long ago Of life’s great allies and their foes Of hearts of love and hearts of stone And watching lives that live alone I wrote a sonnet of surprise Of those who told me I was wise And those who were there by my side Until each one met their demise I wrote a sonnet of the blood Of men whose legacies become Legends of the braves who won Their death to save the ones they loved I wrote a sonnet in the sand With words at mind and stick in hand I scraped the letters slowly and Engraved my sorrows in the land I wrote a sonnet just to show The bravery of those I know And memories that I must own I wrote a sonnet long ago

Welcome to the Auschwitz of America Where babies lives have little worth Pain goes unnoticed, tears are ignored Here in the Auschwitz of America Little hearts are poisoned Little mouths scream suffering A baby’s worth isn’t measured Instead it’s thrown away Here in the Auschwitz of America Liberation isn’t an option when you haven’t yet been born So a child is subject to the cruelest kinds of murder from their parents, no relief Fact: a heartbeat means alive Fact: alive means a baby Fact: abortion kills babies Welcome to sin, and hurt, and shame Welcome to a moral argument Of whether a babies deserve the slaughter they find here Or if they actually have an inkling of a right Where “unworthy of life” is tattooed on their arms And a classification of “less than human” is given to their name Abortion isn’t a cure for bad circumstance Killing isn’t a solution for overpopulation Murder isn’t a crime th

Sandpaper words -- their roughness is kind Because it grinds against my heart To make me A smoother Version Of Myself

There is a silence on the battlefield of thought. When no longer hear the song of the brave, only the still, hushed anthem of the shot and the mothers with their children in the grave. Their song is as mournful as death, yet as elegant as royalty’s robe. As hope lies with them beneath evil’s hot breath, They sing of going home. This is the music of thought. Of the tickings and tocks of my mind, that lays desolate, distraught, of the eureka’s they must leave behind.

I thought his hair would come straight off of his head in the wind Like when the autumn breeze strips the maple branches of their dignity and makes its colors drop to the floor I thought my heart would drop to the floor My brother had never been so serious before He was almost fragile in his humility Like Granny’s chinaware, hidden behind a protective glass so that no one could get their hands on it Because if there’s one thing I learned from surviving childhood it is that people will leave their fingerprints on the most impressionable, delicate pieces of you So you have to hide, behind your gigantic shell of a self so that people can look in and wonder just how breakable you are but they can’t Break you My brother was made out of bullet-proof glass One day, his glass shattered He held my hand, which is something a shield cannot do He cried, which is something a fortress cannot do He hugged me, which is something a barrier cannot do The prickliness

Flicker flicker hiss      Flicker hiss           Flicker pop The fire of inhumanity is begging not to stop. As it's flames keep climbing higher into murderous abyss. Fire fire flicker      Fire flicker           Fire hiss Death is like a rolling wave of an orange lick of flame. As it curls around like fingers in a lust for the unslain. Flicker sizzle pop      Flicker pop           Flicker hiss The future of humanity burns something just like this. Children of mistakes that our parents made back then. The flame that they all lit is coming round again. Sizzle flicker pop-- Stoke the fire of our sins. Be the one who takes a stand amidst the flames and cries For the lives of all the millions who'll never say goodbye Be the one who runs into the burning world by choice With no other goal than providing the afflicted with a voice Don't let the world grab hold of you and cast you under spell We know the one who burns for Christ will never burn in H