Tear drop
A song from the Soul, a tune from the mouth of a wilding.
Reader response from SMALL SMALL SMALL
“Being covered in mud smoking a cigarette beside river bank sounds like something John the Baptist would do”
- Trevor L in [redacted], Arizona
Trevor. JtB is a roll model. Paved the way! Honey and locust, wild animal fur clothing. Thank you!
Do you know where the wild things go?
They go along to take your honey, la, la, la
Break down, now sleep
Build up breakfast, now let's eat
My love my love,
From the mouths of the starving crowd a lamentation is sung for an opening! A slight slit to stretch across the sky letting water flow over the dry land called home and my thoughts speak to me like that, poetic statements of a better world but in my ear is heavy rock music, so loud there’s blood pouring down the lobes and I’m reminded how accurate the name Ear Drum is because if you turn the drums up it causes bleeding quicker than any other instruments.
The masses sit with banana curved backs, hunched over a keyboard and on that keyboard drips out every ounce of personal motivation.
Invisible.
Unseen. Pursuit to reach that once Holy potential they saw in themselves has been squeeze out like a wet rag, wet dog shaking off water and here they sit - chained by a fear of risk and that keyboard is now stained with complacency.
I’m going to cry. I am crying.
My phone is trypuensje rnadom letterfsf becahsts it’s drenched in the liquid and Apple hasn’t mastered that principle yet: Accurate typing for the Man of Emotion.
But these tears are for my friends.
Many pour out sips from their beer or whiskey bottles for fallen soldiers but my pain goes much deeper. There’s a full weeping when I imagine the faces of my once Bright
Excited
Enthusiastic
friends and family.
Rocky has continued to set the bar higher and higher with every publication of War Kitchen. Read the newest rung in the ladder - ISSSUE 10 -
Their smiles have been stolen from them and I’m no savior.
I’m actually too selfish for this. I don’t know where this feeling comes from.
Somewhere deep in the tombs of my blood vessels is an ANGER. I imagine it to be the same anger that Matthew felt while watching Jesus hanging across the cross.
It’s an unsafe level of anger that I’m not wise enough to know where to channel.
What to do?
Socialism is a lie. Communism a facade. Maybe we buy a ghost town, me and the old gang, maybe there we restore that long lost attitude… maybe… maybe.. I’m thinkin’
I can’t burn down every office building. I can’t rip, physically, my friends from the lives they’ve convinced themselves they deserve.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what to do.
I wish I could give you want you need.
Land? Money? Self respect?
I have to use words as weapons. It’s the only chance I have, they have.
I often mail letters to friends much more animated and sensationalized than any found on Souled Idea.
These are one of a kinds that I never take pictures of or copy, they’re decorated in tear drops.
These are the ones I hope will spur a micro revolution, revolving around the reader and the reader’s life only.
These are my ripples.
WITH LOVE,
WINSTON
SOULED IDEA
THE SUNRISE STALKER
THE MAN IN THE WOODS WEARING FUR.
_______________
