JFK: More than a shadow “Things do not happen, things are made to happen.”-John F. KennedyThe shot(s) heard around the nation On November 22nd, 1963, the death of one of the most inspiring and idealistic leaders our nation has ever known, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, rocked the foundations of America at her inner-most core. His passing marked not only the second presidential homicide of American history, but also the divergence of the progressive and civil rights movement from mainstream politics, instead fueling the final explosion of the military-industrial complex that ignited an era of new age technological advancement, whose fruits and ramifications alike we are now beginning to see today. In this great schism, both miracles and calamities awaited. Hearts and deals alike were broken. Alliances were made, bridges were burned. Wars waged. Cultures united.From the ashes of President Kennedy's hopes and dreams, we sprang forth like a phoenix, sons and daughters of a time
SometimesI just want to tear the world in halfJust to see if they'd build bridges,So they could keep fighting each other.
E_denButterflies and embersFall like leaves in NovemberNot that I’d remember, it’s hard to recollectA memory of a place you were only meant to protectFrom a distance, so that my affections wouldn't become soListless, like before.I would've been ignored, sent to my cage of empiric lament,In which my regrets resounded, like teeth against cement.I speak from experience, of course; that is, I tryBut time and again my tongue becomes cold,And time and again, I lie.It’s a credible stance, more so,This morbid, barren gaze of mine;It serves to halt such turquoise doubts,In favor of lush carmine.Yet still my voices chase me, and my choicesCome to shape me,Even through the shallow docksOf these raking steel-wrought locks.They trace circles, but what I lead is not a parade, a mere charadeSomething less comforting than life, I’m afraid.More akin to a shade, like that purpose I was meant to forget,Under shadow and solemn service, to be bound by silhouettes:J
Sobering metaphorsWriter’s block is like a market stock:It tightens its grip,Then plummets like a rock.
Critical ReactionJust stop for a second, hold on for me would you?Give me a clue, another moment or twoTo get back on track, on cue,While we reset the fuse—It’s a time game, not playing a rhyme game hereSo let’s start some shit,Trip the wire, andClick-fire-bang, another tragedy sangThroughout the chambers of congress,Through a loaded chamber’s complex;Round and around, round after roundSpinning out of time,Running out of crimes to count up insideSuch a constant divide—Round after round,The screams and the poundsTurn to star spangled streamers; the scarsOf the dreamers, these diamonds in the dustScrambling through the rough,Trampling over their trust, before the bridge has timeTo rust,To fall, far belowThe shadows of market stalls, the recycled puppet showExcept in the shade, who’s really pulling the strings?Which has the ace, and who has the spade—Is correction just collection at the bad end of a blade?You decide.In the end, it’
MortalityIt’s been said that animosity is a reflection of its beholderErgo, atrocityIs the perception of something bolder:Quiet and morose,Yet limited in scope. It defies hope,Yet exhibits itself in folly—--Enjoys its own fallingA rather stirring reminder of what it meansTo seek peace.And in it, pieces.The pieces of belief; the mortal reliefThat comes with a mind,And the horrors it seeks.Uncouth, meek—These are mental scarsFrom a time before the darkBecause there was never any light,Only predation and strifeAs well as the conscious choice presented:To kill, or die,Presented by a limited means of life.