>Prose is for Pansies. Or, My Political Views

>listen to the voices
as they lie into your ears
with the soft facade of peaceful sleep,
abating lucid fears

listen to the cadence
of ten thousand pulsing fists
with the liars mixed amongst the sane
and saints with masochists

listen to the rise and swell
of thoughts inside your head
while they toe the line of manic / fixed
hating you instead

listen to the space around
what's left of what was yours
with the shiny words that glimmer from
their numbing, dulling swords

listen to the whisperings
of formless, talking heads
implanting what you think and feel,
not feeling it, instead

I don't know. Maybe I was just bored haha

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.