Bestdays.

When the night collects dust,

before deciding to depart, 

and your knees feel weak,

from traveling through the 

dark.

Release your bated

breath, and let it beautify

you as you recall the reason

you are blessed. 

As your sight declines, 

and your voice wavers on 

the verge of its revenge—

focus on the best moments 

of your life that stand out 

above the rest. 

Seize.

When I was a gasoline-soaked rag, that you threatened to ignite, whenever you erupt, that was when I prayed I'd learn to fly, so I could just runaway and take off towards the skies. 

Leaving you behind became a fantasy that seeped into my daydreams, before possessing all of me.

The taste of freedom so sweet and thick upon my tongue, like honey, it was sugary as it was warm and golden. 

Some days I could almost reach out and grab the reins, and regain control of my life, even if it were just for a day. 

Picture it—my own routine, a job, and my own home, where I could be the me I was always meant to be. 

Instead, I'm a shadow of the future I was supposed to know as an adult; the failing sum of all the broken parts of you and I from prior battlegrounds.

I remember a time when I believed that I could be somebody too, that I could rise to the occasion, and achieve success like everyone else.

But I've resigned to this war, this slithering that's seized and besieged me; oh, how it seethes! Under the curse of you and I.

Barkat.

Deliberate deeds lead to impeccable speech, where truth liberates the good, and loathes dishonesty.

A life lived with integrity, is Eden's indemnity, insurance we end this life, for blessings, eternally.

American Horror Story.

When six men can simplify six hundred tribes, 

seemingly erasing their sacred spaces, 

then covering their resilient red skin 

with clown masks, and whitewashed faces, 

it becomes quite evident that 

their lives were deemed irrelevant. 

This particular element of European settlement was in fact, rather malevolent. 

This bedevilment became the brick and mortar building blocks that laid the foundation for the extermination 

of indigeneous ancestral traces, 

eliminating their authenticity, 

and history, in order to eradicate

 them from a stolen nation. 

A genocide created by gunpowder treason, 

an extinction over time that lacked humanity, let alone any logic or reason. 

From 18 million brave—

belittled and enslaved to pave 

the bloodsoaked reserves that exist today, with less than one-third of 

their original clique laughed away an⁹d left to decay on some heroic highway. 

Statistics this stark should send 

shockwaves across this stolen nation, 

but instead are met with a silence 

that's as stifling as strategic strangulation. 
It's suffocating.

AND my soul cries for the lost tribes 

of a lawless station, 

invaded by a species deluded by 

their imagination of having invented emancipation.  

And yet, they still refuse to acknowledge allegations about sisters, and mothers, otherwise known as their missing and murdered Indigenous relations.  

As though mass graves beneath 

Catholic enclaves were some kind of coronation, and I'm not saying anything 

aside from stating that 

this conversation is long overdue.  

It's about time we either flipped the script, and fixed this broken system, 

or changed their same old 

divide and conquer, fear-mongering corporately-scripted station.