I wish i could be more optimistic

 

The apocalypse or I wish I could be more optimistic

I feel like americas gonna blow.

I wish i could be a little more optimistic

You’d probably like to see more also.

Optimism that is.

I feel america’s gonna show itself

To be the false illusion it always strived to be.

I wish i could be more optimistic.

It’s not my friends who lack, nor poets, nor black lives matter,

Who forsake that Peace,

But we're talking about america, can’t be anything other than a unexploded munitions just sittin there, waiting for you or me.

Like a ups gift, amazon, prime delivery.

I wish i could be more optimistic but it’s not in my blood,

I’m sore battered and bruised from trying to believe the mean and evil will one day see the light. 

Bulb, 

We live in a world of make believe. 

The end times. Man, will my illusions be shattered when the horned Beast takes down the crowned bitch of heaven with seven bells, horns and trumpets sounding for a whole Millenium that’s yet to come, When will it end? When will it begin?

it starts all over again and again with a fortnight slaughter

Upon the wicked, forsaken, and derelict.

Someone will be left to rot on the street. And that will be sign of something to come, to end, to be manifested

Will it be you? Will it be me?

Goddamned i wish i could be more optimistic.

I’ve gone from black power to black lives matter.

Transformed from Roman Catholicism, authoritarianism to free thinker contrarianism,

From power to the people to power in the streets,

From red scare wars to military defeats.

Damn, i wish i could be more optimistic

No one cares, no one matters

We're all left standing waiting for the next step to take, shoe to fall, make the right call, but we’re on a one way street, going backwards. Against the grain

I don’t feel as if i can do much and feel as if i don’t want to try if i could,

I wish i could be more optimistic,

Maybe even be a little funnier.

Forget about the numbers in front of the washington monument, the ones washing their feet in the long pond of the Lincoln Memorial, the ones who will go home and eventually get murdered in their sleep, run down in the streets, sleepless under their sheets,

Voiceless in their screeds, chopped up, crushed, by the surrounding drumbeats and chants of kill, murder, maim, put them all in chains, secure the cages, fill the jails, and even with all that, I see, this prose fails to complete.

I wish I could be more optimistic.

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