You cannot believe the things you are saying.  Personally, I don't have to hear those words to know that those are the words inside of your head.  Your face may be beautiful, but if we were only aware of the blood-drenched soil that you planted that gorgeous flower on, we might rise up and raze the entire field.

We could start over.  We could run as fast as we can back to the beginning of the day.  I could yell at you as you fall behind, pretending that I am going to leave you by the red fence forever, but you know better because you can hear my heart every time I speak to you.  On the other hand, I can never hear your heart, even if I press my ear through your chest.

I will face those challenges in my own due time.  My constraints are of my own creation, meaning that they have been handcrafted by the finest arisans to ensure that my escape can only be the subject of Saturday Night movies and essays buried so deep in the internet that google won't look for them without a flashlight.  The shackles always come out whenever the fun is just getting started, and the revolution demands my dance numbers immediately.

What's the issue here?  Can you not just stand next to me without starting a fight?  Can we not be on the same side without you using your voice to grow angel wings that only you can see, give to you by a God you and your friends crafted out of a dead ideology that smells so atrocious that my nose has melted into Kool-Aid.

I'm not going to play any longer.  Games may not always be a waste of time, but they are not productive either.  I am not going to stand around and wait for your Revolutionary Militant newspaper to proclaim the right words to freedom.

I refuse to be a piece of your appartus.  Your appartus refuses to refuse to be a part of me.  I stand proudly as I shout epithets at those who would deny your freedom.  You sheepishly cry out from underneath your blanket that has been stitched together by passive-aggressiveness about my refusal.  You ignore your own refusal to recognize that I am a human being with the right to refuse the stars if I so desire.

At the end of the day, you forget that I am the soldier here.  The front line starts in front of me and ends with the horizon in front of me.  Your war stops the second a soldier asks a question.  That's the precise moment that my war begins.  At the end of the day, as you cry foul and ask your Daddy to make the bad people leave, I continue to stand proud.  I hold my beliefs in my right hand until it starts to bleed fury, and I know that my attack must never stop.  I also know that I'll never be able to see where the next onslaught against me will be coming from.

But I am a soldier, and this is the life I have accepted, for better or for worse.  Standing or dying, the World will acknowledge that it has lied all these years about the power it has over me; I am the only one in this equation that has any power.  I become a rampart; unyeilding, even when my so-called friends launch massive amphibious assaults on my emotional fortress.

Still you deny me, and still I soar on.  The sacrifice has been made, and now there's nothing you can do about it.  The ironic part?  Now there's nothing you would care to do about it either.