Art, Poetry
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social justice warriors

they don’t teach it why

they just say it is

like a fascist with a fist

reason is met with contempt


but all it takes is a whisper

pulsating in the ears of men

go softly into the storm

as if the hail is but a breeze


those who assume the hill

are the first to meet their end

and though we are spectators

we scorn them in the same way

This entry was posted in: Art, Poetry
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My name is Michael and during my free time I avoid having a day job. Strangely enough, this gives me the freedom to run this blog. I write just about anything that can be considered art. I also occasionally post articles that may or may not be relevant to the theme of this site. You’ve been warned.

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