Treasure Island

Ace Of Black Hearts

(04/17/1984 / Homa Lousiana)

A Political Asset

To describe those feelings.
System overload.
A system that continuous explodes.
Malfunctioning every single day.
This is only way.
Voices of guilty pleasure.
Tell me is this the second or third measure.
Because once is never good enough.
It keep getting better.
A destiny unfettered.
I keep reading this letter.
And every time tears fall like ice upon skin burning every inch of the skin.
Even my tiny hairs stand on end, how can believe it.
Oh how I want believe it.
In the perfect world, with perfect person.
Sentenced to a life misery and misfortune.
Divided by both a sickness of the worse abuse, and a class war.
The honest man left to rot.
Left to sleep on his cold uncomfortable cot, because not willing to just take it.
He doesn't want it bad enough.
The illusion of this sick twisted competition.
And I sit in the heart of the beast.
There are those who are envious.
All over the world.
We have the power to change it all.
And all we can do is cower, and hide in some dark corner.
Because we are not willing to spill the blood of one more innocent.
No stomach for a revolution.
We're not like them, does that make us any better?
An open invitation to the war of lies.
More words designed to distract and disguise.
The monster they don't want you to see.
The plucking of certain strings to get something done.
Moral objectivity, there is no such thing.
You either have them or you don't.
No not just when it's convenient, but also when it is so hard.
A rubber stamp and you are scarred for the rest of your life.
We can go to him, because we already own him.
We know his dirty little secret.
An asset made, used till the time comes when he must be thrown away.
Discarded like yesterday news.
Manipulation set in a congregation.
Sitting in a desert of desolation.
Still waiting for the rain, still praying for the rain to come.
And cleanse all these rotten souls, and bring life to decaying empire.
Is human nature nothing more then pure desire.
Holding your hand to the fire.
The heat is on, now tell me when the pain is gone.

Submitted: Wednesday, January 01, 2014

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