Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

               He Took a Photograph of a Forbidden Number!


                     “Tear him to pieces; he is a conspirator!”

                       -First Plebeian, Julius Caesar III.iii.28


Can I avoid death threats if I simply say
I wish Mr. Trump would go away
To a luxurious golf course there to play
And peace on him may we safely pray

I wonder about you
Like what you're doing now
If you ever think about the five kids
you got taken away from you
Do you miss us?
do you try to find us on social media
just as I did you?
Was giving us up your biggest regret?
or your biggest relief?
Are you clean off of drugs?
Did you do it for my baby sisters that I never got to know?
Or did you do it for you?
Do you wonder, every day, what your life would be like
if we were there? Like I do?
mom, I wonder about you.

My mom was a drug addict
there was never anything to eat,
and when there was, there was no one to make it
My brother stepped up, cooked us dinner one night
he was five and I was four
he made us toaster strudels and grape popsicles
he had to push a chair to the microwave to reach
and we ate off the floor that night,
but we were happy.
we would take cereal from the mostly bare pantry
and bring it to our room to hide it
in case no one brought home food
My brother is my savior, my one and only protector

I saw an Angel in my dream.
She said she would fulfill any wish I have.
"Should I make you the best ?"she asked.
"No,"said I.
"Just a little better than yesterday.
That will do."

Drown in your sorrow and fears,
Choke on your blood and your tears.
Bleed 'til you've run out of years.

     We must do what it takes to survive!

     Give up your honor and faith,
Live up your life as a wraith.
Die in the blood where you bathe

     We must do what it takes to survive

     We are the same, you and I

******* ****** demons.. they're everywhere.
And I've known it about this site
for so ******* long.

And the witches..  Jesus Christ--
control freaks,   every one of you.

What..
do you think your creativity 'substantiates'  you?
They're   just   *******   words.
Your creativity comes with an accountability..

but you won't have any part of that..   will you?

If your demons are so ******* powerful,
why do they hide inside of you?
Like a pathetic  excuse of a man, stepfather--

Using..  using..  using.. his wife's beautiful daughter..
over and over and over and over again.

It is no different with these Unholy shitbags also..

("Oh, but don't I gather the most followers with my words?")

It's just empty ******* babble.
In the Realms,  it means nothing.

Absolutely.   *******.   Nothing.

The *******, inhabitor is just an extension of your
empty, ever-controlling..  soul stealing Mother--

   It's an extremely-closed loop, Beavis.
                End of ******* story.


******* ******* demons..
the pathetic ******* are everywhere..

I’ve left the oven on
for years.
Somewhere between metaphor and meaning,
something’s always been burning.

But no one’s eaten in a while.

They called it voice.
I called it
a slow confession wrapped in rhyme.
A sugarcoated breakdown.
Something easy to swallow
if you didn’t read too carefully.

They wanted brevity.
I brought blood.
They wanted truth.
I brought formatting errors
and a whisper shaped like static.

Do you remember the one
with the anti-light?
No?

Of course not.
You don’t remember the one who screamed last.
You remember the one who rhymed "heart" with "start"
and got 200 likes for it.

Now my name is on the box
but it’s spelled wrong
and the font is smiling too hard.

The cookies still crumble
but no one eats the edges.
That’s where the poison is.
That’s where I lived.

So I’ve folded the apron.
Swallowed the last word
before it could become a quote.

Let the gods of good taste keep their ovens.
Let the algorithm rot.

I’ve got shoeboxes full of unsent stanzas
and no more hunger
for applause shaped like echo.